


Forever Bound

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Series: Forever Bound AU [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aang is 16, Azula is her own warning, Choking, Everythings worse AU, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-06-20 03:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15524757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: It's something more than coincidence that binds them together, a fate written long before they were born. The Avatar and the Fire Prince. It's a painful destiny, and Aang only wishes that it didn't feel so damn good.





	1. The Water Chakra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qouinette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qouinette/gifts).



> The original AU turned out way more angsty than I planned, so let's have a bit of smut instead.

It was not the element Aang was born to, but there is something soothing about water that calms the chaos in his mind into something almost resembling peace. The water of the lake laps around his toes as he finishes wringing out his clothes, lying them on a sun-warm rock to dry. Appa and Momo doze in the shade of a sprawling fig tree near the lake edge, exhaustion from a long journey chasing them into well-earned sleep. The spray of the waterfall cools the air, an oasis free from the heat of the sun.

Aang wades into the water until his feet no longer touch the bottom, twisting onto his back to float with the soft current until he reaches the opposite bank, far from the rumble of the waterfall. The gentle breeze cools the droplets of water still clinging to his skin, the heat of the sun and the chill of the water a pleasant contrast. The buzzing in his head quiets. It feels wrong, to crave solitude after his years of sleep, to want to be alone when loneliness is a crushing weight that threatens to suffocate the breath from his body. But Aang is so very tired.

Taking a deep breath, Aang relaxes, body sinking under the water until silence envelops him. Its peaceful, under the water, a quiet that surrounds him and pulls the pain from his flesh. It’s suffocating too, distant screams and terror choking him as the memory of a wall of freezing water drags him into darkness. Aang opens his eyes, tips his head back towards the shimmering disk of the sun rippling above the surface. That was enough wallowing in the past for today.

Letting out his breath in a stream of bubbles, Aang flicks his hands to create a soft current that pulls him along the lake bed, letting the slick vegetation curl around his limbs. Like grasping hands. He feels pathetic for the thought even as he twists in the water, lets the tendrils curl around him tight in a makeshift embrace. In the quiet of the lake, Aang lets himself pretend there are hands holding him close, a familiar grasp that is too tight, verging on the edge of pain. It is pain edged with sword-sharp guilt for a pleasure he knows he shouldn’t feel.

It isn't that he is being wilfully blind, he _knows_ that that possessive grip isn’t kind, but even so, there’s a quiet voice in his head that tells him that he is valued by the owner of those hands, that he is a precious thing.

Something to protect and hold close as more than just the Avatar, but as Aang too.

The last time those hands had been on him, they’d held tight enough to make him cry out from the exquisite pain, and for days afterwards there had been a perfect set of bruises that had circled his wrists like cuffs. As he’d drifted to sleep the next few nights, he’d pressed his fingers into the darkened flesh until the pain was a low throb that echoed his heartbeat. A fire nation patrol picks up his trail at Mt. Makapu, and when Aang cares to look again, it's a shock to see the bruises had faded to a pale yellow. He’d swallowed the foolish sting of regret at the sight. Those hands hadn’t touched him again, the next time they met. Aang tells himself he doesn’t care. But there’s the ghost of hands too strong, too painful, digging their way into his flesh to him closer to something so beautiful and right, something Aang could _belong_ to. He gasps, wriggling free from the watergrass at the dangerous direction of his own thoughts, kicking his legs out to swim back to the surface of the lake. He’d gulps the fresh air, trying to let the phantom sensations fade from his skin.

His only warning is the sharp ripple of heat at odds with the cool spray of the waterfall.

“Well, what an unexpected surprise,” says a drawling voice above him, and Aang’s head jerks up to stare into Admiral Zhao’s gloating smile.

 

 

Aang huffs through the rough fabric of the gag, surreptitiously twisting his wrists against the restraints, but the ropes hold strong. They hadn’t covered his nose, a rookie mistake, but it isn’t much of a weapon against the dozen soldiers, especially not with Zhao so close at hand.

His breath would only be good for a quick distraction. He glances at the soldiers clustered at the dripping cave entrance, the spray of the waterfall burning orange like embers as bursts of fire rip through the air. The soldiers move in unison, their stances strong, but the rocks beneath their feet glisten, kept slick with spray from the waterfall. A slippery surface could be enough to dislodge them if his air blast is strong enough.

Aang steels himself against the urge to act. He needs to time his moment well.

Admiral Zhao barks orders from the lake edge, sparing only brief glances at Aang's bound form, reluctant to look away from the figure opposite him.

The setting sun illuminates the figure crouched on the slippery rocks, a dark shadow outlined in burning gold. The image makes Aang’s breath catch, something too beautiful for words, an ethereal form clad in sunlight, glorious and untouchable. Even for the Avatar.

The masked figure draws their twin broadswords, rising with coiled grace as Appa shifts behind them with a threatening growl. The Blue Spirit doesn’t so much as twitch at Appa’s warning roar at the soldiers, like they know without words that they are allies in this, united in helping _him_ , and that guilty pleasure licks at Aang’s chest once again, distracting him when he should be concentrating on escaping.

Aang takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand against the ropes across his chest as the Blue Spirit leaps down, blades cutting through the bursts of fire, Appa’s tail sweeping the air with a powerful blast that sends the soldiers sprawling. The soldiers yell as the figure darts between them, as quick as any air bender, blades singing through the air to cut at flailing hands and feet. The Blue Spirit slams their blade handle against a soldier’s head, doesn’t pause as they jump over the crumpling body and curl a hand around Aang’s arm in a familiar vice-like grip. Gloved fingers twitch the gag away from Aang’s mouth, and he grins, pleased despite himself at the familiar face. Or, well, mask. For a second, the hand grips tighter, an answering pressure to his smile, and Aang feels his heart flutter at the possessive hold.

“This is becoming a regular thing for us, huh?” he jokes, pushing away the feelings in his traitorous heart.

The Blue Spirit tilts their head, and the fingers around Aang’s arm flex.

The fireball is a deafening roar that cracks through the rush of the waterfall, Zhao’s face twisted in malicious glee as the Blue Spirit flys back from the force of the blast, hitting the rock wall with a sharp crack. They slump to the ground, unmoving.

“No!” Aang screams, scrambling across the damp ground, trembling hands reaching out, shaking the still body.

The Blue Spirit doesn’t stir at his touch.

Zhao is laughing, a cruel sound, like he enjoys it, enjoys hurting others, enjoys brining pain, and Aang _can’t_ bear to watch another person die as he helplessly watches. Not again.

Rage tears through him, unexpected in its burning fury, echoes of the terror and pain watching his people burn, knowing he left them, left them to die because of his _weakness_ , unable to help again and again and _again_ , and everything whites out as he focuses on Zhao and thinks with the echoed anger of a thousand lifetimes, “ _I’ll bury you for this_ ”.

 

 

 

Aang dreams of icy water and air biting into his skin, his bones, dragging him into darkness. He dreams of an empty darkness, a yawning abyss that echo with screams. A warm touch on his wrists, his neck, that pulls him back into the light.

Echoes of fingers brushing his cheek linger as Aang blinks awake. He blinks again, confused when the darkness doesn’t lessen as his eyes open.

“Where…?” he mutters, pushing himself up.

A sharp hiss echoes as a flame flares to life, shadows dancing against jagged stone. A twisted face watches him from the gloom.

Aang jumps with a yelp of surprise, and a hand darts out, closing over his mouth in warning. The Blue Spirit places a finger against their grinning mouth, and Aang stills, heart calming as clarity returns. He nods his compliance, lips dragging against the cloved palm. The Blue Spirit draws their hand away, picking up the flickering match that serves as their only illumination. Aang tells himself he doesn’t miss the warmth of those hands.

“Where are we?” he asks, glancing around them.

The light of the match is meagre, but the roughly hewn rock that surrounds them is answer enough. The caves aren’t carved, not by human hands, and a distant rumble answers his unspoken question. Badgermole caves were a dangerous place to be, especially for non-earth benders. Aang winces. He doesn’t need to wonder how they got down here when the echoes of screams still linger in his head, his skin still oversensitive from the rush of white hot power. Now that's he's in control again, getting _out_ will be the issue.

He glances at the Blue Spirit, remembering the crack of his flesh against stone. They didn't _look_ injured, but Aang is quite sure even if they had cracked ribs and broken legs, they still wouldn't give anything away. All that tightly woven control spoke of deadly power held in check, as inscrutable as a statue. Even now, after the Blue Spirit had saved him several times, there's something about them that still sends a thrill of fear up Aang's spine.

But even so, if they _are_ injured, they couldn't take their time escaping to the surface. Aang considers the small match illuminating the cavern.

Without a word, the Blue Spirit holds out their hand, a small bundle of matches in their gloved palm, a silent time limit for their escape from underground.

“Monkey feathers!” Aang curses, counting the small number of matches. “If I could fire bend already, matches wouldn’t be a problem. We could take our time. I mean, not that you’d want to stay down here. With me. Alone. Ah ha ha.”

The Blue Spirit tucks the matches away, mask never turning from Aang’s face. He can almost feel the penetrating stare from behind the painted porcelain. Aang fights down the nervous giggles threatening to escape. He suspects laughter wouldn't do him any good right now.

“Buuuut, I think I can feel a breeze coming from that direction,” Aang says with forced nonchalance, waving into the darkness to their right. He hopes the Blue Spirit won’t break their established silence to call him on this bald-faced lie. “Sooo if we head that way, we’ll be out of these caves in no time!”

It’s a loud silence.

Aang laughs nervously. “No problem at all, right?”

The Blue Spirit stands, and Aang tells himself the silence isn’t sceptical, even though it really feels like it _is_.

“Right,” he says, firmer than he feels, and sets off into the darkness with a jaunty bounce in his step.

After half an hour, and two more matches down, the claustrophobia is settling in when they seem no closer to an exit than before. The stone walls are too close, everything too still, like his whole body is bound. He wants to shake, to scream, but he can’t show weakness, not with his silent shadow burning holes in his back with their stare.

Aang talks to fill the silence, his nervous chatter a tick he’s never quite mastered control of. At least the Blue Spirit was a good listener, insofar as they didn’t seem like they were _ignoring_ him, so Aang let himself talk without direction. It was surprising how easy it was to talk about his past, comparing the stone walls to the enormous bricks that made up Omashu, detailing how _exactly_ one rode the mail chutes, how many times he’d ridden them with Bumi. As he trailed his hands over the rough granite walls, he told the Blue Spirit about how it was nothing like the smooth marbled stone of the Temples and the intricate designs caved from the mountains itself. How the wood and stone had seemed so warm and alive, his first hint, he supposed, of the truth. Why else would the earth sing to an air bender acolyte?

The pain of his past, his secrets, is a sharp ache, a throb that squeezes his chest with every heartbeat, but the words pour forth in the flickering darkness like it’s natural, like it’s easy. Even though Aang keeps repeating to himself that they’re not friends, that this connection he feels is all in his head.

The sporadic rumbles shake free a shower of loose shale over them that set his teeth on edge. Worse is the air, stale and unmoving. Aang wants out, wants open skies and crisp, fresh air, feels the need clawing into his skin. So, he talks. Of his home. Of his people. Of his friends. Of Bumi and their exploration of the twisting labyrinth of ancient stone mines beneath Omashu, of how Kuzon had dragged him up a mountain to get a dragon egg, how his fire bending practice had set the family tapestry on fire and Aang’s clothes hadn’t survived the rescue attempt, how Kuzon had draped him fire nation-red and pretending to be princes.

There’s a sharp hiss of breath from behind him, and Aang stumbles. Heat creeps up his neck, sure that his blush is visible in the dim light. Dangerous, to forget who he was talking to. The Blue Spirit was _not_ his friend. Ally was not the same thing as a friend. Aang will tell himself this as many times as needed until he _believes_ it.

“Sorry,” he says, unable to bring himself to look back. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? My mentor always said I was too chatty for a monk. That’s how he knew who I- haha, he was always saying silly things like that. H-he always tried to cheer me up, even after...” Pain chokes him, so sudden and strong his vision greys, every memory of Gyatso blurring with the crumpled skeleton surrounded by fire nation remains. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t been strong enough, or he could have stayed, could have helped, if he hadn’t been so _weak_ -

He jumps when there’s a touch at his elbow, memory echoes fading away. The Blue Spirit draws their hand back, hovering, before reaching out to tap at Aang’s chest. He frowns in confusion, glancing down at himself, before impatient fingers come back to curl around his cheeks, squeezing until Aang lets out a huff.

“You know, you’ve got a funny way of cheering someone up,” Aang says, shaking the hand away, but he can’t help but smile, the silly gesture reminding him of the other Acolytes, and Aang wriggles with a sudden need to play. “I’d do the same, but your scary mask doesn’t look very squeezable.”

The Blue Spirit tenses when Aang shoves a playful elbow into their chest, and Aang suddenly remembers how they got there, the sickening crunch of body hitting stone. “Sorry, sorry, you’re not hurt, are you? I can help if you-”

Impatient hands brush him away, stepping out of reach, and Aang lets his own hands drop, concern curling in his gut. “I’m sorry,” he says again, regret roughening his voice. “You helped me and I got you hurt. That always seems to happen.” Aang cannot look at them, shamed tears prickling his eyes, and he angrily squashes his guilt into the hollow pit of his stomach.

Repression is not his peoples’ way, not something that led to good spiritual growth, but he’d rather bury the memories of Gyatso’s urgent voice, the flashes of orange light that coloured the sky as he and Appa had fled, forget the screams, the smell of smoke, forget it all. That was another time, it wasn't _now._

Behind him, feet shift uneasily, and Aang can see the shadow on the wall shuffle forward, as though they want to come close, and Aang’s traitorous heart shivers with a flickering hope. He turns the slightest amount, sees out of the corner of his eye the Blue Spirit half turned away, hands flexing in and out of fists.

Aang swallows, his grief and loneliness a yawning chasm inside of him. “Even though you don’t owe me anything, you helped me,” Aang murmurs, eyes fixed on the still figure, watching gloved fingers curl in and out of fists, over and over. “And for that, whenever you need it, I’ll _always_ help you.”

Those hands clench tight.

There’s a crackle as the flame on the matches burn bright and white-hot, before darkness engulfs them.

There’s an irritated tut and Aang smiles imagining the irritated expression that might lie behind that mask. The darkness is absolute, impenetrable, nothing but the rustling nearby to give any sign that Aang isn’t alone. “Can you relight them?” he asks, but of course there is no reply. Without the aid of sight, Aang can’t read them, can’t even be sure if the Blue Spirit is even listening, making Aang once again curse his inability to fire bend.

“I could try and produce some fire,” he offers as the scratch of the firesteel echoes in the darkness. “Or maybe you could hit me and kick start the Avatar State,” he jokes weakly, the only answer the brief sparks of flint failing to relight the damaged matches.

“Yeah, pretty dumb idea, right?” he mutters to fill the silence, swinging his arms as he glances around the cavern, despite the absolute darkness yielding nothing. He thinks of those powerful, clever hands gripping the firesteel, and his own fingers twitch with longing. He tamps down on _that_ desire. Not the time.

There’s another click of firesteel, the briefest glow of sparks, but the matches don’t seem to be catching at all. The darkness is absolute. There’s the softest whisper of a voice, a hushed curse. Aang feels the whisper slither across his skin like a physical thing, tucking away the sound of it to mull over later.

Despite his keen hearing, it feels like the rustling is far away, and Aang reaches out before he can think better of it.

His hands brush against body-warm cloth, and the rustling abruptly stops. “I couldn’t… I needed to know you were there,” Aang says, aware of how pathetic and childish he sounds. How _weak._ Even so, he doesn’t let go, curling his fingers into the loose material.

There’s a long pause, and Aang can feel a warm body underneath his hand, breathing slow, controlled, before the rustling starts up again. It is such a small victory, not even a victory at all, but Aang is glad for it all the same, that the Blue Spirit has allowed him this much.

“I don’t think the matches will catch again,” he offers, feeling the body tense and relax under his hands. Tremble with a flash of anger. Aang tries not to think about the carefully restrained temper of the Blue Spirit, of how it sends a hot lick of want curling through his belly. “If we follow the cave wall, we can still try and get out without the matches. But we should… we should h-hold hands. So we don’t get separated. No other reason. Nope!”

There’s silence, but without seeing the other’s body language, Aang can’t hope to parse it.

“It’s- it will be safer if we-” he begins to urge, but a soft touch to his wrist quiets him. The rough pads of gloved fingers slide over the jutting lines of bone on the back of his hand, graze over the soft skin of his wrist, lingering as Aang’s pulse jumps at the touch. The fingers pull back a sliver, then push forward, a barely there caress of his pulse, and it must be Aang’s imagination that it feels like he’s being _learnt_ , the thought making saliva pool in his mouth. He swallows roughly.

The fingers curl around his wrist, pulls his grip from the Blue Spirits sleeve, but before the protest can even leave his lips, the hands drag his hand back. There’s a brief pressure of wordless command, and Aang is glad the darkness hides his dopey grin as the hand slides away, leaving Aang's hand resting against skin-warm cloth. It's dangerous, the absolute darkness, lending him a reckless courage. He presses his hands forward, flattening his palms against – he realises with a jolt – a broad, warm back. Muscles flex underneath his hands as he curls his fingers, digs them into flesh. There’s no give, a solid wall of muscle born of years of rigorous training, the body of a warrior. So much power.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says, the unsteadiness of his voice stark in the darkness.

The body in front of him doesn't move, and for a terrified second Aang worries he has spoken aloud, given away his secret, but with a soft huff, the Blue Spirit starts to walk. He tells himself he's imagining things. The rational little voice in his head points out that _that_ is the problem.

Aang’s words have dried up, distracted now without light to guide them, with nothing but the feeling of a warm body underneath his hands to ground him. The only other sound is the slight scrap of fabric catching against stone. Aang shakes his head to clear the thought, because he can’t keep thinking about _those hands._ Even though it’s worse in the darkness, now that he can’t see them. Now, his imagination can run wild and unchecked, can think about that rough drag against his skin instead of the stone wall, that powerful grip pressing against his wrists, pining them above him, stepping in close.

The moan that escapes his mouth echoes in the empty silence of the tunnel.

His hands slide against the warm back when the Blue Spirit stops and turns. Then those hands are on him, gripping him in with silent concern, and it’s, it’s too much for Aang, when desire threads through his skin like fire.

“I’m, I didn’t- _sorry_ I was just-” he stammers, not even sure what he’s trying to say.

Fingers brush his mouth, and Aang can’t help the hitched gasp at the touch.

Warmth surrounds him, a heavy weight that crowds close, pushes Aang against the wall. He can’t think, because this may be his fantasy, but it _never_ could happen, it was only ever a dream, but the Blue Spirit’s thigh is pressing between his knees, slotting sharp hips against his.

Aang is hard, harder than he ever remembers being before, his body aching, every nerve burning with the sensation of body-warm fabric sliding against his skin.

“What are you-?” He protests by rote, even as he curls his hands around broad shoulders. He wishes he could see them, even with the mask on, he wants to know what the Blue Spirit looks like, wants to feel and see and touch and _taste_.

Hands slide down, pressing hard into his hips before dipping lower into the soft edge which hip meets thigh. Aang’s breath hitches. There’s an answering hardness against his own hip. Like the Blue Spirit wants him too.

Aang slides his face against porcelain until he finds the crook of neck, buries his face there and breathes. The warm, spicy scent of incense floods his senses, and Aang drags the Blue Spirit closer, hips moving mindlessly, hard enough that any friction feels good. Muffled breathes huff by his ear, and Aang wants to feel that on his skin, wonders what their mouth tastes like, if they would bite, leave marks on his lips, press the proof of ownership on his skin like a tattoo.

“Please,” Aang mutters, and there’s an answering grunt as the Blue Spirit shifts, the hard drag of a thick cock slotting against Aang’s own straining erection through too many layers of fabric. Fingers dig into his thighs, lifting his leg to hitch in closer, hips driving up in sloppy thrusts, and Aang moans into their neck, body shaking.

“Please-!”

It’s not just his body shaking.

They both freeze, the cave floor, the walls all trembling.

There’s a deafening bang as rock crumbles, a dim watery light flooding in around the hulking shape of the badgermole as it carves a new tunnel. Beady black eyes turn towards them, nose twitching.

Aang swallows the saliva pooled in his mouth. “Badgermoles! We, er, we should really get out now before they close up the tunnel again,” he says, wincing at his breathless voice.

The Blue Spirit steps away without a word, leaving Aang to scramble after him, wincing as every step rubs against his straining erection. In the fresh air, the dark carpet of stars shines bright above them.

“I don’t think Zhao would have been able to follow us here,” he says as casually as he can muster while still being uncomfortably hard. “I can call Appa and we can- oh!”

The Blue Spirit steps close, Aang’s heart pounding a deafening staccato once more. The moon is a bright disk of light illuminating the painted blue mask as it tilts in close, considering. Aang stills as a hand reaches out, hovering over his body, not touching for a long moment.

A silent question.

Aang looks into the black eye sockets, and something within him shakes free, the desperate need that chases his every waking thought exploding out of him, and there’s a hitch of breath, as though the Blue Spirit sees the moment Aang surrenders to himself.

Fingers reach out, brush against the soft hollow of his elbow, thumbing down his inner arm, before they stab into his pulse point, a sharp stab of pain that jolts like electricity through his whole side.

The Blue Spirit disappears into the darkness without a sound.

Appa descends from the sky with anxious grunts, Momo chattering wilding in greeting, both soothing when Aang pats them, but his mind is far away. He settles back into the saddle as they rise high into the night sky, Momo chittering around Aang’s shoulders.

He pays Momo no mind, his eyes are on his wrist. Slowly, deliberately, he presses into the faint pink mark over his pulse point, hard, harder, until a purple-red blooms until his skin.

He won’t let Zuko’s mark fade again this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody's got a crush~ Also I happen to love the idea of Aang having a low-key pain kink because he's so desperate to connect with someone after waking up alone.


	2. The Sound Chakra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly sure if this should be an M or E-rating, so bear with me folks as I stumble blindly in this wonderful new world of smut.

Zuko runs his thumb over the blade of his broadsword and frowns. Despite his calluses, the blade should slice through his skin open like a moon peach, but he supposes recent… _activities_ may have dulled the blade. He opens his money bag, frowning at the meagre contents. It’ll cost him most of his funds, but the town he’s in has some fat little lordlings strutting about that could be persuaded to part from their purses easily enough.

He drifts towards the blacksmiths near the town centre, certain it will be busy considering its nearness to the local garrison. Sure enough, several Earth Nation soldiers are lazing about outside the forge waiting for their repaired weapons, and Zuko hands over his weapons and money, already calculating the best place to sit and wait. Earth Nation soldiers are fantastic gossips, loud and too eager to talk about themselves, easy targets to get intel from. All Zuko has to do is sit and listen, and all kinds of interesting things come forth.

The soldiers hardly spare a glance at Zuko as he sinks to his knees in the shade of the forge, eyes flicking over his worn, dusty clothes with disinterest. Despite its usefulness, his anonymity is still galling, his tattered pride still bruised at every dismissal, every appraising look that looks at him and sees _nothing_. Since parting with his uncle, violence simmers under his skin, a constant itch that Zuko allows to burst to the surface more and more. Deep down, the soft-hearted boy he once was is horrified how uncontrolled, how cruel he has become. It's easy to ignore that boy, he's a distant memory buried beneath wounded pride and the stink of burning flesh. The only path left to him is victory.

He slips into mediative breathing exercises, pushing away the echoes of his own agonised screams, the helplessness and shame. He is never truly powerless, after all. Fire is the superior element, not limited by access to their pre-existing element like earth and water. The only other element that rivalled them were the Air Nomads, but they’re weakness had led to their demise. Rightly so.

Zuko reminds himself of his lessons as a child, what his teachers had instilled in him since birth of the glory of the Fire Nation. It is a hollow comfort, but all he has after his disgrace, the only thing that keeps him from shaking apart with shame. He ignores the quiet voice in the back of his mind pointing out that if Air Benders were so weak, how did the Avatar prove so deadly with only that element mastered. That voice is much too reasonable.

“… didn’t think it was possible if I didn’t see it myself!”

“Those accursed machines. But it was so satisfying to watch the Avatar blow that little bitch away.”

Zuko stills, focusing on the chattering soldiers’ voices. There had been scant few scraps of information on the Avatar’s whereabouts, too many bragging soldiers and townsfolk with outlandish stories of how the Avatar appeared in their village to kill a whole garrison of Fire Nation soldiers, or ripped apart the ground to swallow a thieving man. It had been irritating, shifting through the rumours to find the kernels of truth, especially since the true stories were often as outlandish as the lies. But the liars always admitting their falsehoods when Zuko slid his twin broadswords under the necks. Despite what Uncle had taught him in matters of diplomacy, violence had proven to be a faster method of getting what he wanted.

“They’ve managed to remove the machine. My cousin Kwan said it took twenty earth benders two days to shift it, the damn thing was that heavy.”

The other soldier snorted. “If she wasn’t the enemy, I would almost admire that girl’s tenacity, getting that thing through enemy territory. She’s almost stubborn enough to be an Earth Bender.”

The first soldier slammed his fist against the wall, stone cracking beneath his hand like eggshells. “Don’t compare us to that filth. _Our_ people don’t enjoy the killing, not like them. Violence is in her blood; the whole family is rotten to the core. You weren’t there ten years ago, you should have seen the uncle. Six hundred days of never-ending assault on Ba Sing Se, soldier upon soldier lost to the effort, and he only stops when he loses his own son. They only care about themselves, Ghao, and how much misery they can create.”

Zuko’s hands flash out before he can think, hauling the soldier closer. “The one who attacked Ba Sing Se, the one with the drill. Who was she?” he demands, every nerve lighting with adrenalin, because she can’t, she _can’t_.

The soldier shakes his hand off with a huff. “The Fire Nation princess. Broke through the Outer Wall a few days ago. Would have gotten further if the Avatar hadn’t stopped her.”

 _Azula._ “Did he capture her?” Zuko manages to ask through numb lips, but the soldier is already shaking his head.

“Escaped, and damn near half the nation’s soldiers out looking for her,” the soldier admits, spitting at the thought.

Zuko steps back, body trembling. His palms are slick with sweat, heat building under his skin, ready to burst forth. He wants to move, to leave immediately, take his swords and run, but he can’t make a scene, he needs to be smart now. It’s an effort to concentrate, breath in slow, lets the breath sit in his lungs before releasing in again, aware that the air he expels is unnaturally hot. The fire in the forges roars, a bright tongue of flame that matches his breathing, but the blacksmith only stokes the embers with a puzzled look.

Zuko eases back against the wall to wait for his swords, trying to organise his scattered thoughts.

Azula tried to attack Ba Sing Se. The Avatar stopped her. She escaped.

Zuko breathes again, slower. He doesn’t try to temper the violence, the rage simmering under his skin. He focuses it, a bright point of white hot fury that lights every inch of his skin, shimmering power that burns through his veins, an inferno waiting to be unleashed.

Azula was trying to snatch his prize from under him.

Zuko would burn the flesh from the Avatar’s bones before he let her take what was his.

Ba Sing Se is several days away. There’s temptation when his ostrich horse begins to slow to simply walk, but Zuko cannot let himself be stupid in his haste. It’s slow going, but Zuko tells himself that that Avatar is strong enough to evade Azula yet.

Song had told him that there was hope now, with the Avatar’s return. He wants to laugh at the cruelty of the thought, to be taking comfort in the strength of the Avatar.

Outside of the towns, the wilderness stretches out, an endless landscape of jagged rock and red dust. In the scant patches of vegetation Zuko makes his meagre camp, sharp little stones digging into his back through his bed roll, and tries to find peace in the shining heavens above him. The temperature drops, and Zuko breathes slow and deep, lets his inner heat warm him rather than risk a fire drawing unwanted attention.

In his dreams, he is a Prince, glowing and resplendent, and all bow to him as the Sages lift to crown to his head. But there is no weight, no slide of gold into his bound hair, instead there is childish laughter, and he opens his eyes to a merry face. He reaches out, trying to take back the crown, but the boy dances out of reach, grinning with unfeigned delight as Zuko stumbles after him. They race through the halls of the palace, out onto the roof terrace, and the boy hops onto the wooden railing, arms wide. Zuko tries to catch him, drag him close, and the boy dances out of reach again. Zuko opens his mouth to scream, and laughter pours out.

He jolts awake, hands clawing at empty air, and rids himself of the dream by setting the trees ablaze. The night air glows with the amber flames, the stars hidden by a wall of dark smoke.

Two days from the Serpent’s Pass, his ostrich horse collapses in exhaustion, croaking weakly when Zuko tries to urge it to its feet. Starvation is a new sensation, one that Zuko had never really understood. He’d fasted as part of his training, and had assumed in his sheltered little mind that this was the same hunger the peasants complained of. Now, his twin broadswords jump to his hand without a second thought to end the pitiful croaking. The ostrich horses blood is searing hot on his tongue, spilling down his front as he gulps it down, but the protein is too valuable to waste. Besides, new clothes would be easier to come by once he reached the port.

It's a marvel, in a way, what gnawing, all-consuming hunger can drive a person to. Taking what he needs at the edge of a blade, no better than a common criminal, a bully who takes from those weaker than him. He tells himself that he needs to survive to reclaim his throne, his tattered honour, that his intentions are noble, but it is a filthy lie.

How can he even think to one day call himself a prince, to return to his father’s halls triumphant and victorious, hoping for his honour restored for all the nation to see when he is no better than a street thief? Every time, he tells himself it will be the last time, a brief moment of weakness on his journey for redemption. The voice is soft and drawling, the voice of his sister. It tells him he _should_ take, he is powerful and dangerous, he has every right to subjugate the weak, to have what he desires more so than these peasants. He was _born_ to it, his Divine Right.

His sister's voice to whisper in his ear more and more these days.

Uncle had looked at him with such disappointment every time he'd returned with stolen goods. He'd been able to shame himself without a moment's thought, begging for scraps and taking charity with a smile, and even Zuko in his stubborn wilfulness could see the strength it took to be so at ease to not let others shame him. And Zuko wants to be that strong, that unshakeable. Unkind words are all he's capable of, pushing Uncle away, and when they part ways, he tells himself it was better that way, that Uncle had been holding him back.

There was a time before, when his convictions didn’t sound like such _lies_.

In his dreams, joyful laughter plagues him, a phantom of light and air that turns to smoke the second he touches.

 

 

 

Greenery surrounds the Avatar’s house, untidy shrubs spilling out of the garden bed, thousands of tiny white buds that sway on leafy vines in the wind. The thick, heady smell hangs heavy in the air, drowning Zuko’s senses.

It is a familiar smell.

Uncle had loved jasmine tea.

He tries to regulate his breathing, but the smell is inescapable, making him dizzy with regret and longing. The warm air heavy with the perfume of flowers and bees droning amongst the jasmine remind him of lazy summers, tripping over his own feet as he chased Lu Ten through the palace gardens. Uncle’s throaty laughter follows them through the jasmine.

A shadow flashes over him, breaking Zuko from the heavy blanket of sleep. The cat owl glares at him from the tree hollow above his head, mouse dangling from its mouth.

Zuko moves to rubs his eyes, only to remember the mask when his fingers hit porcelain. Sleep has left him addled, weakness chasing his steps. Not now, not yet. Time for weakness later.

But exhaustion has weakened him, whether he wants to admit it or not. Zuko glances at the sun still high in the sky, and considers the stillness of the house in front of him. It’s a risk, a big one, but Zuko’s fatigue is a disadvantage that he cannot afford.

He curses under his breath, creeping across the garden like a shadow.

The air is cool inside the house, free of the oppressive stench of jasmine. Zuko treads lightly despite the empty quiet of the house, eyes flickering over the room. A stack of fliers haphazardly gathered on the desk, a faded map smudged with inky pawprints, a reed brush that snaps beneath Zuko’s boot. He runs a finger over the rim of a clay cup, murky tea left unfinished inside. He breathes slowly, trying to calm his sharp staccato heartbeat at each new sight.

The futon lies behind a paper screen, a mess of blankets strewn with crumbs and crumpled bits of paper. Zuko kneels at the edge, hand sliding through the air above the chaos of bedding.

This is where he sleeps.

The Avatar’s pillow smells of sandalwood.

Zuko shudders, drags the blankets around him, and the smell grows stronger, seeps into his skin like perfume, like poison.

It is a strange feeling, knowing that the Avatar has lain here, rested here. Zuko slips down to the futon, sinking into the echo of the Avatar’s chi. He closes his eyes, and can feel another body next to him, as real as breath.

The Avatar lies curled on the floor, sleeping on his side, hands curled beneath his chin like a child. Fitting, Zuko thinks with a smirk. There’s a mumble, and the Avatar twitches, shifting in his sleep, a little frown creasing his brow. Zuko stares, entranced by the little divot between those brows. He hadn’t thought the Avatar could have an expression like that. He had always seemed so untouched by the concerns of the world, powerful and resolute, a being of pure joy and light and hope.

Something _better_.

The Avatar shifts again, a little sigh escaping his mouth, pulling the edges of his lips down. The furrow in his brow deepens. Zuko reaches out, curls his hand in the space above the Avatar’s skin. He frowns, the dream stuttering when he can’t fathom how the Avatar would react to his touch. He dreams of pain, of bruises blossoming under his hands, wide ash-grey eyes full of helpless anger. He dreams of victory.

But he _remembers_ softness. The quiet gasps, the red-bitten lips, the way the Avatar had melted the moment he’d touched. Such an easy given trust.

Zuko doesn’t fight the slow drag of sleep. He is safe here, after all.

Awareness rips through him, sending him to his feet before his mind can follow. Ash-grey eyes blink at him, round with surprise.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I, er, didn’t actually know how to wake you up without getting stabbed.” The Avatar laughs, hands hovering over him, and Zuko's hand jumps to his face, blinded by panic, but his hand knocks against porcelain, mask still in place. The Avatar's smile wobbles at the gesture, hurriedly pulling his hands back to his sides as Zuko sits up.

"Don't worry, I didn't peek! Although, I should have, serves you right for falling asleep in _my_ bed. But I humbly accept your sincere apologies." The Avatar places his open palm over his closed fist, bowing low, and the familiar fire nation gesture sucks the air from Zuko's chest. "Please, enough contrition! Talk my ear off, why don't you,” the Avatar grins, eyes twinkling. He’s being _playful_ , and Zuko’s broadswords shift warningly. The Avatar doesn’t so much as twitch, dropping to his knees beside his futon. "But honestly? After talking to General Boring and Admiral Meathead all day, your silence is welcome. Always nice to spend the evening talking with a friend. Or talking to, in your case."

Muscles trembling with adrenalin, Zuko lowers his swords until the tips touch the soft hollow of the Avatar’s throat. Grey eyes cloud with confusion, but maddeningly, that trust is there.

Zuko leans forward, a gentle pressure, and the Avatar shifts away from the blade, sinks down onto his back. Zuko steps over him, watches the Avatar watch him back. The room is dark, moonlight outlining the Avatar’s body in silver, ash-grey eyes glinting animal bright back at him.

It would be nothing, absolutely nothing, no more than a simple twitch of his hand and that throat would split open. The Avatar cycle to begin anew if Zuko willed it so.

Powerful.

It’s been too long since he’s felt powerful that Zuko stands statue still, lets the feeling roll through him, lighting the shadowed parts of himself, wakening like flowers in Spring. Every part of him he’d buried at every humiliation, every loss, every thwarted desire burns through him, clearing the months of fog and passive acceptance into a sharp point of desire. Here, now, he is in control.

Tentative fingers brush against the wrappings of his ankles. The balance of power wobbles, scales tipping, and Zuko stops breathing, trying to keep control of the emotion welling up his throat, threatening to burst out of him like a typhoon. The Avatar grows bold at his silence, fingers sliding up, cupping the back of his calves. There’s slight pressure, as though the Avatar wants to draw him close, but a slight added pressure to the sword at his throat and the grasp loosens.

The Avatar was unafraid. Zuko tries to focus, rage licking his spine, clouding his vision, wounded pride howling within him. The Avatar was _unafraid_. Blades at his throat, masked stranger above him, and _still._ Even in the darkness, Zuko can see the trust in the Avatar’s eyes shining like a beacon. A stupid, pathetic, unacceptable weakness.

Zuko is on his knees before he can think better, tugging slim wrists up and slamming his swords into wood, a makeshift shackle. The Avatar’s chest heaves against the bracket of Zuko’s thighs, sharp gasping breaths as he squirms, mouth open wide.

Free to move, to touch, Zuko brushes gloved knuckles against the soft shell of the Avatar’s ear, listening to the tiny hitch in breath at the contact. The Avatar watches him, eyes shining bright in the dark, pinning him in place. Zuko moves slow, cautious, all too aware of the raw power that lies beneath him. The Avatar’s mouth parts at the first touch of his fingers, falling open to reveal a pink, wet tongue. Zuko carefully slides forefinger past slack lips, resting against sharp little teeth, and when the Avatar whines, shifting under him, Zuko slides his finger in deeper, over a soft tongue. He can’t feel it through the rough fabric of his gloves, only the faint pressure as that tongue pressing up. He draws his finger back, only to watch in wonder as those sharp little teeth close, but it is a slight pressure. He stares into the Avatar’s challenging gaze, drags his finger back, and fights the wave of heat at the feeling of those teeth catching on the padded leather on his gloves.

He drags his finger over that plush lower lip, watches the Avatar’s expression darken with a familiar want. He rubs his finger on the divot bellow the Avatar’s lip, eyes fixed on the slick wetness he leaves behind.

Beneath him, he can feel the Avatar’s body tensing, muscles bunching and releasing, trembling with each small hitch of breath. It's dangerous, this illusion of power, that the Avatar's trust means a thing when he's standing there hiding behind the anonymity of a mask. Only fools and cowards dream of things that can never be. The Avatar’s eyes track him, hot and yearning, as Zuko shifts, getting his feet underneath him, only for the Avatar to gasp.

“Wait,” he whispers, pleading, but Zuko starts to draw away, cursing his own folly.

“Zuko, please.”

Everything shatters.

Zuko crouches, frozen, thinking to check his mask is still in place, as if he couldn’t feel the heavy porcelain covering his features. He’d always wondered, but had been so sure that the Avatar would never be so open, so trusting of his dear ally the Blue Spirit, if he had _known_.

He reaches for his blades.

The Avatar scrambles for words, voice tremulous as Zuko curls a hand around the hilt, “Zuko, we can fix this. You- you _saved_ me, even though you didn’t have to. All those times you could’ve… But I _know_ you, I know there is goodness in you. I’ve seen it. We could… we _can_ do so much more together.”

Zuko remains frozen, staring down at the earnestness of the Avatar’s expression, and _hates_. He loosens his hold on his swords, and the Avatar _melts_ , and that will not do.

He wraps his fingers around the Avatar’s delicate throat.

The Avatar’s eyes widen, but still those words don’t stop. “I know you’ve felt it. That we were connected. I know you did– _do_. You think it’s your destiny to capture me, but what if it’s not? What if your destiny was to _help_ me?”

Zuko’s fingers tighten, feels muscle and soft flesh give beneath his hands. The Avatar’s pulse races against his palm, but his voice, gasping for air, still won’t shut up.

“I need a master, someone to teach me fire bending. Who else in this world would _ever_ help me, except yo–” Zuko shifts forward, bringing his weight down on his arms, watches with satisfaction as the words choke in the Avatar’s throat. Saliva bubbles on the Avatar’s lips as he spits out his words, eyes still flashing clear and bright. “T-this is- your destiny… The two of us bringing, ngh, ba-balance to the– to the world.”

The Avatar looks at him with guileless eyes, and _still_ there is nothing but trust.

Zuko flinches away with a cry, yanking his swords from the wood. He tries to stand, wanting to run, to escape these horrible tempting words, but the Avatar is quick, grabbing his belt to drag him back down.

“Zuko,” he whispers, pulling him close, and his name sounds like a curse on the Avatar’s tongue. “ _Please_. I need you.”

He shimmies close, hooking his ankles around Zuko’s back to leverage himself up into the fold of Zuko’s knees. The Avatar’s hand slide around his neck, against the tie at the back of his head.

Every part of him is on fire, burning with too much, far too much, every ounce of control keeping him stock still as slender fingers fumble with the tie of his mask. He jerks back, a warning, but the Avatar is looking at him, too close that he can see in horrifying detail the freckles on the Avatar’s nose, the pale shadow of long eyelashes framing ash-grey eyes.

“Please, Zuko,” the Avatar breathes, and leans in close.

The porcelain is thick, but he feels the slight nudge as the Avatar presses his mouth against the grinning fanged mouth. He watches his hand like it is a foreign thing, moving without his permission to grasp the Avatar’s nape. He’s breaking, feeling himself splinter like spider web cracks in fine china, brittle and unsteady.

He feels more than hears the hitch of breath, the Avatar shifting his hips down, letting his weight press against Zuko’s belly.

Closing his eyes behind the safety of the mask, Zuko lets a shard of him splinter and break away from the whole.

“Stop this,” he whispers, voice hoarse from disuse, and the Avatar _melts_ , shuddering against his chest.

The hands on him turn greedy, nails scrabbling against cloth to pull him closer, hips stuttering forward with a desperate cry. Zuko does not, _cannot_ move, but the Avatar is not deterred, fingers dipping between folds of cloth until he finds what he was looking for with a triumphant cry.

The first touch of those hands against his cock has Zuko’s resolve crumbling, eager fingers tracing the outline of him through the heavy material of his pants. The Avatar tucks his head under Zuko’s chin, angling down to look between them.

“You’re supposed to be enjoying this,” the Avatar pouts, glancing up at him, but his eyes are bright, lit with a horrible, intolerable warmth. “Can I?” His fingers trace the shape of him, up and down, a maddening tease, but Zuko’s words have dried up.

The Avatar studies him, expression inscrutable, a strange sight when his face had always been so animated. If Zuko was a weaker man, he’d look away at the intimacy of seeing a side to the Avatar seldom seen, knowing he doesn't _deserve_. Eyes locked on Zuko’s mask, the Avatar inches his left hand up to the juncture of his shoulder, cupping his neck against Zuko’s corded muscle and hammering pulse, a gesture more intimate than their needy grinding.

“I need you,” the Avatar whispers again, and his expression softens again. “And I think… I think you need me too.”

He shifts, thumbing down his own pants, and even in the darkness Zuko can see the blush staining his cheeks as he tucks his pants under his flushed cock. The Avatar returns to thumbing the outline of Zuko’s length, glancing up at him. There is fire in his eyes, a steady determination, despite the tips of his ears as blood red as his cheeks.

“We could do so much together, Zuko,” longing in his voice, such a desperate, foolish, lonely thing that claws at that hidden hollow in Zuko’s own heart. He snarls as fingers dip inside his pants, and the first touch of the Avatar against his skin is electric, a sweet fire. “You and me, we could fix everything. We could be _amazing_.”

The Avatar twitches forward, eyes fluttering closed at the first glide of cocks against each other. He rubs his palm against his own leaking tip, using his own precum to ease the slide of his hand, fingers struggling to pump both their lengths at once.

“Do you see, Zuko?” he whispers into the damp air between them, and Zuko shudders because the Avatar’s voice sounds _wrecked_. “Do you see it? Our destiny? I knew there was something, even the first time we met. You coulda,” He drabs his thumb against the glistening head of Zuko’s cock, pressing his nail to the sensitive underside, mouth curling into a cheeky smile at Zuko’s ragged moan. “You could have taken me, killed me a hundred times. That time in the cave? You let me escape. You saved me from your own people. Because the Blue Spirit is _you_ , the real you, the part that you refuse to show the world. But I’ve seen it, Zuko. There is so much good in you. I’ve always seen it.”

Zuko is lost, those words are too sweet, too painful to bear. He doesn’t stop the Avatar when there’s a tug against his neck, and his mask slips free. Cool air caresses his face, bringing with it the smell of sandalwood. He shudders, keeping his eyes closed.

He cannot look at him.

Chapped lips press against his, fumbling and unsure, and the thought that the Avatar, for all his confidence and easy seduction, has never kissed another before drives Zuko forward.

The Avatar gasps, mouth opening invitingly, but Zuko _bites_ , sinks teeth into the softness of his lip until he tastes metallic blood. He will not give the illusion of gentleness, but of course, of _course_ the Avatar likes that, high-pitched whine as Zuko tongues the coppery blood. Violence was the only conversation they knew, after all.

“Please, please look at me, Zuko.” The plea is mouthed against his skin, dragging Zuko down. “I need you to- you’re the only one that sees _me_ , that sees the real me, not just the Avatar.”

Zuko looks.

The Avatar’s face is wrecked, eyes jewel bright in the gloom and red staining his lips, painting his chin. The fingers around his cock clench painfully tight the second their eyes lock, and Zuko cannot look away. That feeling of power wells up again, heady and intoxicating - that he, the disgraced prince, can reduce the Avatar to this with barely a touch. He could get drunk on power like this.

It is an effort to move his hand, prising his fingers from the Avatar’s nape, sliding around to press against the sweaty hollow above his collarbone. He doesn’t stop looking into ash-grey eyes as he begins to squeeze, feels the hitch of breath beneath his palm. The Avatar hand is a desperate circle of slick pressure that drives Zuko to the edge faster than he’d care to admit.

“Zu- _ko_ ,” the Avatar whines, and he doesn’t stop even as Zuko tightens his own fingers, squeezing that delicate throat. He feels his grasp mirrored by the Avatar’s hand against his neck and cock and digs into the hammering pulse beneath his fingers, momentarily lost in the answering squeeze.

Zuko wants to squeeze until the words dry up, wants to bite that terrible, tempting mouth until blood duns down his chin. He _wants_.

“And I see _you_ , Zuko.” The voice is barely audible, voice choked to near silence, but Zuko hears it all the same.

How weak he has become, that those words undo him, drives him over the edge and he loses himself to the pleasure and the whispered encouragement in his ear. Absolution is too sweet a temptation to bear, a galling thing that he wants, that this own desire is so clearly mirrored by the boy in his lap, that the sight of him coming undone at his words chases the Avatar to completion too. Zuko loosens his grip to prise the other’s hand from his own neck, tangling their fingers together as the Avatar sucks in greedy breaths, shuddering through his release.

“Zuko, I-”

He doesn’t give him a chance to get the words out, slams the flat of his broadsword down hard. Delicate bone snaps, the Avatar screaming as his fingers shatter. Zuko twists feline-quick, even as tattoos begin to glow blinding bright, and his sword slices through muscle, blood pouring forth like a tidal wave.

The Avatar howls in agony, a blast of air that slams Zuko to the far wall. The room glows in a wash of white-blue, power crackling the air like a summer storm. Zuko drags himself up, drives himself forward against the hurricane blasts of wind, grasping blindly until he finds a flailing ankle. He pushes up, back, ignoring the other heel kicking madly at his face and arms. With a wet crack, the Avatar’s knee folds in half.

An explosion of sound and light hurls Zuko from the room, brick walls crumbling to dust as the very earth trembles with the Avatar’s agonised screams.

Zuko shivers, remains curled in the dust as bright pulses of light illuminate the night sky. The earth doesn’t stop trembling.

“I’m impressed, Zuzu.”

He gets to his feet without a word, ignoring the shadow at his back as he edges his way into the rubble of the house. He will need to move fast before the Dai Li arrived to investigate.

“Truly! All these years, and here I thought Uncle’s idiotic teachings of peace had rubbed off on you.” Azula trails after him, smirk plain her voice. “But it seems you’re more interested in rubbing off on someone else.”

Zuko falters at her crude words. _Of course_ she watched. It had been a vain hope for her to leave him to it, when there was so much more enjoyment to be had at his humiliation.

The fine brick house is nothing but rubble and splinters. The Avatar’s glowing sphere of wind and light is a bright beacon in the centre of the wreckage, but it is small, only just cocooning the Avatar’s crumpled form. Zuko reaches in, expecting resistance, but the air sphere is weak, easy enough to penetrate and drag the Avatar’s limp body free. Glowing eyes stare sightlessly up at him as Azula peers over his shoulder.

“Now _this_ won’t do,” she says, reaching out to drag one long lacquered nail down his cheek.

Her smile is razor sharp when Zuko bats her hands away.

“Don't forget our deal. He’s mine,” he warns. Azula shrugs, tapping a cool glass vial to his cheek.

“Just so long as you deal with him, Zuzu,” she drawls. “But do hurry up, we have work to do. We can’t have Long Feng complete his coup on the Earth King before us. Lowly trees that try to rise above mountains need to be cut down.”

Zuko takes the glass vial, scowling at his sister’s lazy smirk. “Proverbs? Whose like Uncle now?”

She shrugs, sauntering away into the dark forest with a thoughtful hum. “Whatever it takes to motivate you. Remember, you promised me a city, Zuzu.” Her idle warning lingers in the air after her figure is swallowed by darkness.

Zuko considers the limp body in his arms, tracing a pattern in the dusty skin before resting his fingertips on the Avatar’s sharp collarbone. A ring of bruises are already darkening the Avatar’s neck. Zuko curls his fingers into claws and buries them into the bruises, right above the chakra point of his throat.

The light flickers in the Avatar’s eyes, dimming into pain-filled ash-grey as he screams.

“Did you know what that chakra point is for, Avatar?” Zuko murmurs, pulling the glass stopped from the tiny glass vial with his teeth. “Right there, in your throat, is the chakra for truth.”

Awareness returns to the Avatar’s gaze, scream turning to a snarl. Zuko shifts his grip, digging his fingers into the muscles of the Avatar’s jaw, prying his mouth open.

“We fire benders are not so different from the air nomads; our breath is our greatest weapon. Just like the air nomads, we cannot allow that chakra to become blocked.” The vial’s contents spill over the Avatar’s lips, his chin, but enough goes down his throat that Zuko releases his jaw with a grim smile.

“Do you know what blocks that chakra?”

Zuko doesn’t look away as the Avatar’s eyes lose focus. He had begged Zuko to look at him, after all.

“It's blocked by lies. The lies we tell ourselves. Denying our own nature.”

Zuko leans close, letting all the pain, all the humiliation of every failed attempt, every moment of his exile, every reminder of his tattered honour colour his voice, lets it in engulf him, so that the Avatar can truly _see_.

“Fire benders don’t lie. We know what we are. _I_ know who I am. _This_ is my destiny. You looked for truth, and saw only what you wanted to see.”

Tears spill over the Avatar’s cheeks, wetting Zuko’s fingers. He ignores the hollow in his chest where all that power had been only moments before, looks the Avatar dead in the eye as unconsciousness drabs the boy under. He _knows_ he was right.

“You were only ever a means to an end, Aang.”

The hollow pit in his chest aches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will write a smut fic that doesn't have long rambling introspection, I swear.
> 
> Aang is such a sweet little optimist and a big reason why I love him, but I do so adore when heroes wrongly put faith in someone. Plus I enjoy Azula being that terrible shoulder-devil that steers Zuko wrong every time.


	3. The Fire and Light Chakras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with the Avatar powers here, mostly because the spiritual aspects were never really explored in a lot of depth and I find those parts fascinating.

The floor beneath Aang’s cheek is cold.

It’s a strange sensation, being cold, one he hasn’t felt in a long time. It draws on shadowed memories of being very small when snow had layered the temple grounds and chilled him to the bone. All the young Nomads had huddled together in by the fireplace, falling asleep in a pile like flying bison calves. Regulating body temperature is one of the earliest techniques Air Acolytes master, untouched by neither heat nor cold, an essential skill when living in remote mountainous temples. An Air Nomad must be numb to the elements, to better focus on spiritual strength without being distracted by needs of the flesh.

He’d thought he’d forgotten what it felt like to be cold. He’d thought he’d forgotten what it was like not to be numb to the world.

Tears prick his eyes as he struggles into consciousness.

The floor is smooth and bitingly cold, and for a second Aang wonders if he’s back in the North Pole before his eyesight adjusts to the dim light and the floor sharpens into gleaming metal and heavy bolts securing iron bars.

He feels the echoes of stinging kisses and the burn of fury, of humiliation, of his own folly push him to his feet.

White hot pain rips through him, grey spots dancing across his eyes as his knee folds beneath his weight. He instinctively tries to cradle his leg, only for pain to explode up his arms, shattered bones scraping against tight metal shackles behind his back, anchoring him to the cell floor. Pain makes him fall back hard, driving the metal shackle against the shredded flesh of his wrist. Twisting his head to the side, he retches at the pain, but only thin acidic bile dribbles past his lips. Any food in his stomach has long since disappeared, the drain of power devouring any source of energy in him.

There’s an insistent tug inside him, the Avatar State bubbling up from within, and it takes all his energy to keep it at bay. Gyatso had trained him to anchor himself on pain, to let it flow like water down a stream to prevent it from consuming him. It had helped when he’d received his tattoos. Now, the pain is a doorway to a power that Aang refuses to accept any longer. The Avatar State was a crutch, a weapon of remembered anger and horror that terrifies Aang more every time.

He had let that weakness consume him, back at the house. The pain of his bones shattering beneath Zuko’s blade had been nothing compared to his words, the cruel determination in his eyes as he’d whispered his betrayal into Aang’s ears. It had been easier to let the shared past lives take over than the clawing shame that he had been wrong.

“Finally awake, Avatar?”

The voice is a throaty hiss in the gloom, jolting Aang from his thoughts.

Beyond the shadows of the cell, amber eyes gleam, raking over his crumpled form.

Aang hates that his first thought on seeing the Fire Lord face-to-face, was that the portrait hadn’t done him justice. The high angular cheekbones and sharp amber eyes are the same as Zuko’s, the delicately embroidered crimson robes unable to quite disguise the wall of lean muscle underneath. A warrior king, a conqueror, and Aang’s enemy.

It hurts, how much of Zuko is in Fire Lord Ozai’s face.

“Why am I here?” Aang croaks, wincing at the scratch of his throat. He must have been screaming when he was unconscious. There was a metallic taste in his mouth.

Ozai tilts his head, and _that_ is all Azula, as is the little quirk of lips as some wicked thought lights his eyes.

“You mean, why are you still alive? Would you have preferred it if I sent you to your people? Or perhaps,” he pauses, savouring his next words, “You would have preferred my son to do the deed.”

Aang doesn’t react, doesn’t move. He tries to remember his meditation techniques, pushing himself into a state of calm. He cannot listen to Ozai. He cannot think on how similar that throaty chuckle was to someone else.

“Perhaps you should have done it. It would have been your finest accomplishment, to be remembered throughout history for how you slayed the Avatar.”

“I had only thought to ensure the victory of the Fire Nation, nothing more.”

Aang’s attempted calm shatters at the quiet voice. In the gloom, he can barely make out the rigid figure hovering in the doorway. Aang stares, trying to somehow will the room brighter, if only to see the expression on Zuko’s face. He has never heard him speak like that before, a careful reverence between father and son, prince to beloved Fire Lord.

“You have done well, my son,” Ozai says with an indulgent smile, eyes never leaving Aang’s. His smile has a strange, reptilian quality that makes Aang shiver. He’d seen that same look in a tree snake, right before it sank its fangs into the throat of a flying lemur. “You need not fear, Avatar Aang, your life is in no danger here. You are my son’s honoured guest, and my daughter has most graciously offered to accommodate you for the duration of your stay.”

He doesn’t mean to, planning on keeping a stubborn silence in the face of Ozai’s gloating, but even in the dim light, he doesn’t miss Zuko’s flinch at the mention of Azula.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” Aang spits, glaring up into those cold amber eyes. “Because you are going to lose, Fire Lord Ozai. I will make sure of it. Underestimating me will be the last thing you ever do.”

Ozai shrugs, a surprisingly human gesture. “Keep your hollow threats, if it pleases you. But I will not give you the mercy of a quick death. You cannot be allowed to reincarnate… not yet, at least. Soon enough, we will have conquered the Earth Kingdom. The North Pole will fall after that. Then, and only then, will we kill you.” A cold, cruel light sparks in his eyes at his next words. “We will kill you again. And again. Until you come back to us in the Fire Nation. From now on, the Avatar will be born only to us, to the superior element.”

Aang can’t help the incredulous laughter spilling forth. “Are you insane? You want to, what? _Control_ the Avatar?” Even as he says it, scoffing, he realises it is the truth, that snake-like smile unwavering.

Zuko has turned away, face cloaked in shadows, but still he stands, rigid and still as a statue.

Ozai leans in, and even with the cell bars separating them, Aang shudders at the oppressive nearness of him. “Despair, Avatar Aang. Despair that you have failed, that this war will end because of you, and know you will not look upon this world again until I wreathe it in the flames of victory.”

Aang swallows the angry words longing to spill forth, refusing to give Ozai the satisfaction, but Ozai smirks at his stony silence all the same.

 

 

 

_Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum._

“We used to play down here.”

Her voice slithered into Aang’s consciousness, smooth and deadly as a cobra. The soft sea of light in his mind shivered, buckled at the intrusion. He frowned, pushing the voice aside.

“We would pretend to be prisoners of war, trying to escape the guards. Zuzu always seemed to like that game the best. The noble warrior who refused to be caged. Sound familiar?”

_Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum. Om Mani Padme Hum._

“Of course, it was always much more interesting when there were real prisoners down here. Zuzu liked the Water Tribe captain who had captained only a single ship but evaded and destroy ten Fire Nation ports before they caught her. Personally, my favourite prisoner was caught by our cousin, Lu Ten.” Her voice pauses, her next words said with a cruel relish. “A wonderful little monk who had been trying to re-teach Air Bender traditions in Gaipan. He was one of the last to fall for the bait caves. Did you know? After Great-grandfather Sozin massacred your people, he ordered caves to be filled with the relics of your people, to draw in any survivors. It was brilliantly simple. They wandered in like koala-sheep to slaughter.”

Even as pain explodes through him, Aang launches himself forward, hands pulling up a wall of air, roaring through the bars like a typhoon. The guards slam against the wall, their heavy metal armour saving them from shattered bones. Azula leaps aside viper-quick, landing with hands raised. Aang twists, wanting to send wave after wave of wind to slice and break, wants her to _hurt_ , but his wrist creaks, the punctured movement robbing his wind strike of its power. Azula twirls aside all the same, the blade of wind slicing through the Fire Nation tapestry like butter.

Aang staggers, adrenalin keeping him upright even as his broken leg trembles beneath him. His wrist is blooming red beneath the tight bandages, a bright point of numbness that is worrying enough to pull Aang from his rage. He needs his hands for air bending, cannot afford to permanently damage the healing tissue with pointless attacks.

There will be time enough for revenge later.

It’s a wrong thing to think, to want, but ever since he woke up in this cell, Aang has allowed those vicious thoughts to creep in more and more. It wasn’t like peace and kindness had saved his people.

“I thought so,” murmurs Azula, watching Aang sway in place with shrewd eyes. “Zuzu had warned me you were more dangerous than you looked. Tenacious, he said.”

“Don’t you ever stop talking?” Aang can’t help the words slip past his lips, fatigue weakening his resolve to remain as immovable and untouchable as a marble statue. The feebly stirring guards were proof he’d failed in _that_ regard.

Azula smiles, strolling forward as Aang sinks back to the ground with a pained hiss. “He holds you in high regard, you know. My brother always did admire such strange people.” Her eyes linger on Aang’s wrist as he tugs the bloody bandage away, inspecting the swollen skin beneath. The blue of his tattoo has darkened to an ugly purple-black around the jagged, weeping flesh of his wrist. He wipes away the blood and pus from the freshly reopened wound, gritting his teeth to swallow the scream of pain at the touch of fabric against his skin. Azula snickers softly, eyes fixed on Aang’s pained expression as she continues. “Zuzu likes power, you know. A dangerous, deceptive sort, of course, but he likes it all the same. Always has. That Water Tribe captain, his sword master Piandao, our Uncle. And now you. He was always drawn to powerful people, but they always had that soft sort of weakness, refusing to use that power for themselves, preferring to be _weak_. Probably our mother’s influence, oh how Zuzu adored _her._ Even though it was his fault she disappeared.”

Aang flinches, refuses to look up from his wrist, focusing on the pain, the remembered betrayal. He will _not_ be swayed by her words. He doesn’t _care_ anymore. He doesn’t.

“Zuzu told me he’d used his exile to look for her. He still can’t give up hope that our mother is still alive, living happily somewhere. Always a dreamer, my poor brother. That’s why it’s ever so much fun to tease him, you know. Under that prickly gruff exterior, he still has such a tender little heart. He still _hopes_.”

There’s a scrape of shoes, but still Aang cannot look up. He knows his face will reveal too much if he looks up. Her words are poison, he tells himself. Zuko is lost, he made his choice, and Aang would be a fool to still believe in someone like him.

“He wants to see you.” Aang jolts, glancing up, before fixing his eyes on the wooden cot in the corner. Her voice is sharp with amusement, pleased now that her words have provoked a reaction. “He wants to, but he won’t. I’ve made sure of it. It’s a little sister’s duty to protect her big brother from his follies. He needs to stay away, or else he will begin to foolishly hope again, and what good would that serve anyone? Sleep well, Avatar.”

She leaves, and Aang hates that the sharp scent of cloves and cinnamon lingers in the air. The same scent as Zuko.

He drives his thumb into his pulse point on his wrist, driving the sweet memory of kisses in the dark from his flesh as blood spills under his thumb, wet and hot.

 

 

 

Aang is deep in meditation, the room a wash of multicoloured light behind his eyes, twisting paths of energy that branch off into the distance, connected to swirling vortexes of light that wade through the sea of energy. He breathes in and feels the slight tug of echoing energy from the swirling red light of the three guards posted at his door. He slips further away, traces the small skittering energy of a rodent along the rafters, the moths fluttering along the corridor, to a burning beacon of multicoloured energy, dizzying in its brightness as it draws closer. Aang follows it as approaches his cell, pausing in front of the three guards, and the quiet murmur breaks though his trance, tugging him back to consciousness.

The burning energy flares, a swirling current that drags Aang closer, enveloping him, and Aang could lose himself in the feeling of warmth and light, until a familiar voice cuts through him like a knife, slamming him back into consciousness.

“I know you’re awake.”

Azula had said Zuko wouldn’t come, and Aang had foolishly believed her. It’s appalling that even now, he _still_ falls for Fire Nation lies.

The energy world shimmers and fades into the darkness of the cell, but his mind is sluggish, focus torn between worlds from the sudden interruption.

Outside his cell, the hooded figure shifts at his silence, glancing back at the guards before stepping closer, gripping the prison bars. “Are you ignoring me?” he says, voice soft and deliberately gentle. “Or was my sister telling the truth? Maybe she _has_ she ripped your tongue out after attacking her.”

Aang’s mind is still floating, awareness not fully returned from the energy world. There’s the faintest echo to Zuko’s words, a strange undercurrent that Aang tries to follow, but his awareness sways without the anchor of meditation, the sound of his voice after so long bringing with it memories of pain, of anger and betrayal and bitter longing that the serenity of the energy world fades fast.

The words come slow to his lips, but the anger steadily boiling inside him had been held at bay for too long, waiting to be unleashed. “Would you care?”

Zuko’s shoulders slump with a little sigh. He pushes his hood back, eyes roving over Aang’s body. “So she _was_ lying. I had thought-” He pauses, a frown creasing his brows. “What do you mean, ‘Would I care?’”

It hurts to laugh, the sound vicious and alien, grating against the tranquillity of his previous meditative state, but it feels good to see Zuko flinch back, eyes wide. “Are you really asking me that? After what you _did_?” He holds up his wrist, pleased at Zuko’s hiss at the sight of the bloodstained bandages and swollen flesh. “You’re, what, worried for me? Scared Azula will torture me? Zuko, whatever she does – cut off my limbs, have my eyes plucked out, flay the skin from my body – all of that will be on _you_. You made that choice, you betrayed me, knowing full well what would happen the second you turned me over to your people. Or what, did you think I would be thrown in some cell and given nice hot meals and drink tea on a bed of pillows?”

“It’s not like that!” Zuko snarls, but Aang continues with a cruel relish.

“No? Then what _is_ it, Zuko? If you knew, if you chose to throw me to the wolves, to _use_ my trust for your own selfish ends knowing what would happen afterwards, then _why_ are you here?”

“You can’t understand,” Zuko shouts, slamming his fist against the bars. “You don’t have parents or a family. You’re a monk! How can you understand my responsibilities? For my honour, for my people, for my _family_ , I did this for them.”

Aang snorts in disbelief. In the corner of the room, the newly replaced tapestry flutters slightly.

“So what you’re saying is, I don’t understand _duty_?” Aang says incredulously. “Are you really saying that to me, of all people? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m the Avatar. That tends to come with certain responsibilities, Zuko. I know damn well the burden of responsibility, I know it better than most. I know dishonour too, or do you think I don’t care about leaving the world for one hundred years to suffer at _your_ people’s hands?”

The bars creak as they begin to glow and smoke beneath Zuko’s clenched fingers.

Leaning forward is painful, the pressure on his ruined leg sending spikes of pain rippling up his spine, but he wants Zuko’s eyes on him, wants him to be unable to look away. Those amber eyes flick down, noticing him favouring his right side to ease the pressure, and Aang is ashamed of the curl of pleasure at the sight of Zuko’s face darkening with guilt.

“You told me I didn’t know you, Zuko,” Aang says, forcing down his anger, his vicious pleasure. “Maybe I don’t know everything about you, but I know of duty and honour. And I know why you came here tonight.”

Zuko trembles but says nothing. His eyes are very wide, open and foolishly, unbelievably hopeful. It makes him look very young. Aang hates the feelings that stir in his chest at the sight.

“You came here because you want forgiveness.” Even as he says it, Aang can’t keep the incredulity from his voice that it’s true, that somehow, Zuko had wanted to be absolved after _everything_ he’d done to him. “But you don’t get to just- you don’t get that, Zuko. I won’t give you that. Live with the shame that you single-handedly ruined the world.”

“SHUT UP!” Zuko screams, the molten hot bars warping as he slams his hands against them.

Anger surges through Aang that Zuko dared to be upset at _him_. “Get out!” It’s childish to scream back, but Aang is tired of being a grownup, of being the responsible hero of the world. “Go on, take the easy way out! It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

“I’ll kill you!” Zuko snarls, fire exploding from his fists.

Aang leans forward again, curling his lips in a cold smile. “As if you ever would, you coward.”

Zuko jerks back as though Aang has struck him, colour draining from his face. Aang ignores the twinges of guilt, letting his anger fill him, wanting Zuko to hurt just as much as he had, that night.

“You can believe what you want, Zuko, but you know, in your heart, that what I said that night wasn’t wrong. You’re here with me now because you can’t stop wanting what I could give you. I bet it hurts, how much you want it, even now.”

He opens his mouth, face twisted in anger and confusion, before snapping his mouth close and striding away in a swirl of robes.

Laughing again, Aang calls out after him as he yanks the door open, making the guards jump in surprise. “Just so you know, Zuko, I still want it too.”

The corridor burns amber bright as Zuko screams with rage.

 

 

 

Agonised screaming jolts Aang from his sleep. He lies on his cot, motionless, wondering if it had been his own dream that had startled him awake.

It was a dream he’d been having over and over again, ever since he’d woken up in a Fire Nation prison. A dream of pain and pleasure, of memory and fantasy of grasping hands and warm skin that blurs into gold-tipped crimson scales that burn like molten metal, a sinuous body that curls around Aang, choking him with its mass, squeezing and squeezing as he gasps for air, but there’s only a smoky, oily darkness that pours into his mouth, filling his lung with burning ash, consuming him until nothing but charred bones are left.

Another scream shatters the silence, echoing through the corridor. Aang shudders, pushing himself up. There’s no mistaking the pain in that scream – someone nearby was being tortured.

A row of guards stand outside his cell, arms raised in preparation to attack. There are more stiff-backed guards at the entrance, their normal spears replaced by dagger-axes, eyes fixed on Aang. The screaming continues.

He climbs out of bed and every single guard shifts.

Having nothing better to do whilst rotting in prison had afforded Aang plenty of time to meditate, floating between worlds, memories of his past selves flickering across his consciousness. He’s been able to tap into ancient knowledge, echoes of techniques, of fights long gone by and immense power at his fingertips hovering just beyond his reach. It had been exhilarating, but still, he knew deep down he could never learn fire bending from his own memories, not without a teacher, and certainly not without practice. But the white-hot crackle of power from the Avatar State seems closer now, burning underneath his flesh.

Slipping into the Avatar State would be easy right now, the sounds of screams stoking the rage inside him, pulling the Avatar State to the surface. But he knows what will happen if he does. He knows he will wake up with a trail of bodies behind him, and the faint memories of terrified screams snuffed out with a thought. Looking into the amber eyes of the guards, he can see their grim understanding, the slight terror as they track his movements. They are scared of him, of his power. Of dying at the hands of the Avatar.

The thought makes him sick.

“Awake, I see.” Azula sweeps into the room, smiling when the guards stiffen at her sudden voice. A eunuch scurries in behind her, a red lacquered box in his hands.

“Stop this now, Azula.” Aang tries to keep his voice level, mild, but they both hear the warning laced in his words. _Stop, or I will stop you_.

Her smile widens, eyeing his bandaged arms, the splint on his leg. “Oh, I don’t think so, Avatar. This has been a little demonstration for you. I felt after Zuzu’s visit you needed a reminder of your position. And who will be hurt if you don’t behave like a good little monk.”

On cue, the screaming abruptly stops.

Aang jolts forward with a snarl on his lips, before Azula sighs, tutting softly. “Relax, they’re still alive.” Her gaze hardens, pointing one talon-like nail at him. “But that can change. That all depends on _you_.”

Gritting his teeth, Aang steps back, forcing his body to relax and Azula smiles once more.

“Now was that so hard?” she purrs, waving forward a guard. The heavy metal doors groan as they swing open. “I’m glad we can understand one another. It makes this relationship so much easier, don’t you think?”

Aang steps back again, watching her approach with alarm. “What are you doing?”

Her smile widens, eyes glinting like glass shards. “Since you’ve been so amicable, I thought I’d give you a reward.” The eunuch steps forward, holding out the red-lacquered box.

Aang takes it warily, not liking Azula’s undisguised glee. The box is ornately carved, a dragon twisting around the lid, claws forming the clasp. Each tip of the tiny crimson scales is painted gold. He shivers, ignoring the ghostly feeling of a sinuous body burling around him, smoke filling his lungs, and opens the box. And stares at the gleaming gold inside.

Azula chuckles, prowling forward. “Isn’t it a lovely gift I got for you? No need for thanks.” She mockingly bows her head, plucking the golden chain from the box, the fine metal sliding through her fingers like silk. “Now then, shall we go?”

Clenching his fists, Aang tells himself that there is no shame in this, that they cannot humiliate him unless he chooses to be shamed by it, unless he lets it wound his pride. He tells himself he doesn’t care, that he’d gladly suffer if it meant he could ensure no one else would be hurt. He tells himself that this is how he can serve the world in this moment that he is doing his duty as the Avatar.

He can’t think about the look on Zuko’s face when he sees them.

The whispers follow him through the corridors, the smothered laughter, the demeaning comments, and despite himself, Aang feels heat creep up his neck. It’s almost a relief when Azula stops in front of a heavy door, snapping away the guards with a word.

The room is empty save for the lone figure pouring over the scrolls strewn across an enormous table. Zuko doesn’t look up as Azula swans in. Aang is grateful for that at least, even if it is delaying the inevitable, but it’s worse now that Aang can look at him properly in the full light of the room, hates himself for noticing how binding shows off the muscle of Zuko’s calves, the sleek ebony armour that tapers down to the sharp cut of his hips. He looks powerful, untouchable, the resplendent prince in all his finery.

Aang wants to tear him apart, break off his princely shell piece by piece, ruin him until he is the broken boy hiding behind a mask that had dared to capture his enemy’s heart.

He looks away, focuses on the scrolls instead as the desire claws up his throat. Then realises what the scrolls _are_ – one looks horribly like battle formations. He shudders, telling himself that this is as obvious a reminder as possible they are the enemy, that Zuko is the enemy.

“You should take a break, Zuzu,” Azula drawls, resting her hip against the table.

He doesn’t look up from the scrolls. “Are you here to help or hinder me, because if it’s not to help then I’d rather tear my hair out over running the kingdom in peace.”

“To help, of course!” Azula says with mock affront. “I’m concerned over how hard you’re working since Father announced the invasion. All these war council meetings, all these preparations, you’ve been run ragged, and I’m just worried you’ll collapse from all the weight of your responsibilities. I even went so far as to bring you a gift to help you _unwind_.”

“Not _another_ courtesan,” Zuko sighs, and looks up.

The air seems heavy, the spacious room too cramped as Zuko stares, eyes flickering between Aang and Azula. His sister deliberately shifts, making the golden chain rattle, and Zuko stiffens when he catches sight of it.

“Courtesan was not the word I would have used, but this is _your_ present, Zuzu,” Azula hums, winding the chain around her finger. Zuko seems unable to tear his eyes away from the chain. “You can make him whatever you want. If a courtesan is what you want then I–”

“What are you playing at?” Zuko snarls, and Aang’s chest tightens when he realises Zuko won’t look him in the eye. Wonders if he’s afraid he’ll see the same want reflected back at him.

Azula tugs the chain, making Aang stumble forward as the chain tightens around his neck. Zuko twitches, amber eyes darkening as he stares at the chain collar.

“What does it _look_ like, Zuzu?” Azula sounds bored, even as she rakes a nail up the chain, wriggles it between the collar and Aang’s skin to pull it tighter, tugs until Aang gasps for air.

Aang flickers down to Zuko’s hands, watches them curl into fists, and wonders if it’s from anger, or if it’s remembering his own hands around Aang’s neck. Remembering and wanting to do it again. _He_ remembers that, the sweet agony of his breath being choked from him as their flesh had slid together, the intoxicating feeling of helplessness, knowing it was Zuko doing it, Zuko who was hurting him, using him, wanting him. In that moment, Aang had let himself go, forgot the responsibility and the war, had let it all disappear until the only thing remaining was his own desires. Even now, after everything, that feeling crawls under his skin, a cloying, heady sensation that seeps into his every pore, drowns him in a consuming desire that only the sweet emptiness of meditation can thwart.

Now, as Azula yanks at the chain, sending Aang stumbling against the table, he can feel that desire rising again, burning through him when Zuko jerks back, fists clenching and relaxing, a familiar gesture from a time before in ink-black caves.

“Don’t play games with me, Azula,” Zuko warns, voice pitched low in a growl, more dangerous than Aang had ever heard him, igniting a spark of unexpected heat at the thought.

Azula drags Aang up with a single finger still curled in the chain wrapped around his throat, pulls him to her until he’s pressed against her side, but her eyes remained locked on her brother. “Be nice, Zuzu or you’ll hurt my feelings,” she replies playfully, but her voice is still knife-sharp. “This isn’t a game – this is a gift for my honoured brother.”

Zuko remains ramrod-straight, the only movement belying his tension is his twitching hands. “Your gift is my own prisoner?” Aang shudders – Zuko’s cold, sneering tone was like his father’s, the same stony gaze that had looked at the captured Avatar on his knees and with each measured word carried the undercurrent that Aang was insignificant, a maggot in the dirt beneath the heel of a king.

Like her brother, like her father, Azula’s voice drips with venomous disdain. “Of course not. It’s as you say: this is _your_ prisoner, _your_ spoils of war. This is whatever _you_ want it to be.”

Something flickers across Zuko’s face, tight lines of distrust relaxing into consideration. He glances at Aang, at Azula still pressed against him, at the golden chain entwining them both. “Father left him in your care,” Zuko says slowly, watching his sister as she shrugs.

“Father thought it was a task best suited for my talents,” Azula drawls, slipping her finger from the golden noose around Aang’s neck, only to wind the chain around her wrist, shorting the leash, forcing Aang to curl over until his face hovered above the table. “Do you agree?”

Even though Azula had made it very clear before they’d left his cell not to escape, right now as he is bent over, neck exposed, unable to see either of them, takes every ounce of Aang’s self-control not to lash out at them. Sweat beads across his skin, adrenaline racing through his body as the siblings continue to talk.

“You know I don’t.”

There’s a click of a tongue, a sharp tug to the chain and a wrench against his bandaged wrist so quick that Aang barely gets his hand up underneath him to prevent himself from sprawling across the table as Azula slams him down. A hand curls around his nape, hard and unyielding when Aang tries to rise.

He considers his position, what Azula and Zuko had been saying, or _not_ saying. It had been hard to follow, the double-speaking Aang had always despised in politicians, but it’s easy to see that there’s some kind of power play going on here, one that’s somehow wrapped up in _him_.

It’s an easy enough theory to test – Aang tilts his head, going soft and pliant under the hand holding him down. There’s a sharp hiss of breath, and Azula’s low chuckle as she tightens her hand, digging nails into the soft flesh of his neck.

“And yet I’ve excelled at the task Father left for me.” Her fingers tense, raking across Aang’s neck, skin splitting underneath her talon-sharp nails. There’s a soft sound, a strangled groan that only Aang’s keen ears hears, and he greedily soaks it up, not caring whether it’s guilt as the sight of Aang’s blood that made Zuko react or something darker. Here, now, he’ll take it all.

“Perhaps this is what I’m best suited for,” Azula continues in that same bored drawl, but now, Aang can feel the way her hands flex slightly at her own words.

“Father honoured you with an important task, Azula,” says Zuko, and from the corner of Aang’s eye, he can see Zuko come close, leaning against the table with his hip. Aang’s neck burns, the stinging pain from Azula’s nails and the feeling of a hot gaze staring down at him. “Guarding the Avatar right now is _the_ most important task of all.”

“Not the war?” she replies flatly.

There’s a long pause before Zuko answers. “It is if we want to win this war right now.”

“Then why did Father not just kill him?”

“He has a plan.”

“A foolish plan. Death is absolute – if the Avatar died and was reborn, it would guarantee he wasn’t a threat to our plan right now. And yet, here he stands.”

Aang had been drifting, half listening as he’d focused his mind and slipped into the energy world, visualising his consciousness wriggling out like threads of light, twining around the two others in the room like vines. There is a brush feather-light of a thought against his mind, the tingle of emotion not his own, and he’d been focusing on untangling Zuko’s spirit from Azula’s when a foreign rage explodes inside him and the hand on his neck slams him down, head cracking across the table.

“We’re fighting a war, we have our greatest enemy in our hands, and Father. Does. Nothing,” Azula snarls, grinding Aang’s face into the table with each word.

Another set of fingers brush against Aang’s neck and the pressure on his head lessens. “What would you have him do, Azula?” Zuko’s voice is quiet, cautious, and again Aang tries to focus on the faint tread of light connecting them amongst the burning bright flames of Azula’s fury.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Zuko,” Azula snaps, her anger a swirling current dragging Aang along. “You know perfectly well what I think. After all this, after everything I did, I achieved, and this is how Father rewards me? Me!”

“Do you,” Zuko says slowly, fingers trembling on Aang’s skin, “Want to be like Father? Do you plan to do what Mother did?”

Finally, Azula’s anger quietens, letting Aang sever the connection and slip away into the coolness of Zuko’s energy, a simmering warmth like a summer’s day. The flutter of anxiety in his chest is not his own, but all Aang can do is relax against the table, turning his head to rest his cheek against the polished wood, feeling the fingers on his neck loosen in response, but the shadow of anxiety doesn’t lessen. He tries to follow the conversation above him, but they are speaking in that strange private way siblings often do, inhabiting a world all their own. Leaving Aang as the eavesdropping outsider, like always. There’s a ripple of anger, one he’s not sure is his own or not.

“I was just talking about my displeasure of Father’s plans, why would I do something like copy him?” Azula says, sliding her fingers from underneath Zuko’s and stepping away. "Do you think I'm the type to fight a losing battle? Uncle may have never thought much of me, but I've always been excellent at Pai Sho. I know how to pick my battles, and I know when to fight, and when to retreat."

A scroll drops beside Aang’s face, the seal broken. He can see a few scrawled words, _army approaching_ , _united force_ , and _significant_. He stiffens in alarm, so certain in their plan woud have remained undetected, at least longer than this. Too soon, far too soon, they wouldn't be anywhere close enough to catch the Capital by surprise. He'd wondered, in the Earth Kingdom, if there had been a spy among their ranks, someone feeding their plans to the Fire Nation. He'd been too trusting, and it had cost them. It could still cost them.

Azula sighs, clicking her tongue. “I’m certain there’s someone better suited to all of this. Ruling, I mean. Father has always been very narrow-minded, so focused on his own glory above all else, he so often misses what is right under his nose. Do you remember what he said when we returned? He was so pleased at your accomplishments; it’s almost like he wasn’t expecting you to succeed.”

The fingers tighten around Aang’s neck, blunt nails biting into his skin. “I did succeed!” Zuko snaps.

“I never said you didn’t,” Azula drawls, sounding amused. Her hand smooths out the scroll as there’s a faint tug to the golden chain around Aang’s neck. Above him, there’s a hitch of breath and the soft clink of metal against metal.

“Has this report come from the War Council?” Zuko asks tightly.

“I was given this by my... 'associates'. I was on my way to deliver it to the Council, but I thought maybe my dear brother might have something to say about it first.”

“Why would you think that?”

A hand slides under his cheek, cupping his chin to tilt his head back. Aang blinks up at Zuko staring back with wide eyes, the golden chain dangling loosely in his hand. There’s soft laughter in his ear as Azula presses up against Aang’s legs, tugging him further back until his back curves, arched over the table.

“This was your accomplishment, Zuko,” she murmurs, nails dragging lightly over the soft hollow of Aang’s throat, and Zuko’s eyes flash, following the movement. “More than Father, more than me, the Avatar was your mission, and your victory. His fate should never have been left in Father’s hands, when that decision was always _yours_. And what do you do with him? Offer him mercy, let him live. Father thinks he'll be our greatest weapon. But what you told me of the Avatar you found, the boy you chased across the world and fought again and again, the one who you saved, who even saved _you_? That Avatar doesn't sound like a weapon at all. The way you spoke about him sounded exactly like the time before you were banished, when you promised me you'd find Mother. The way you spoke of him to me, the Avatar sounded like something far greater than a weapon. The hope of the world, wasn't that what you said?”

Zuko draws a shuddering breath, glancing away, his fingers twisting in the golden chain. “And what do you think?” he asks quietly.

Aang can’t help the yelp as a hand slides along his collarbone, pushing aside his robes until they fall from his shoulder. Something cold slides against his skin, and a finger taps very gently against his wrist. He blinks as the pieces fall into place; the public display of dominance, the chain, the conversation of potential regicide in front of their prisoner of all people. Zuko's gaze is still averted from them, still torn. Aang had laughed at his desire for absolution, for forgiveness, but perhaps... Perhaps he could give him something _else._ But to trust again, to open his heart up to betrayal again? Hurt still flutters in his chest, rage still licks at his mind, urging him to burn them all until nothing remained. But that hurt, that pain, that wasn't what he wanted to be. It wasn't what he wanted to feel anymore. Even if it is dangerous, foolish, too risky a move at this delicate moment before the bloodshed, Aang wants to take this final chance.

Sliding a finger against the hand behind his back, he finds her wrist and taps twice.

Inside his robes, her hand opens and cool glass slides against his skin, something falling into the recesses of his robes. Azula lays her palm flat against Aang’s chest, above his thundering heart, resting her chin on the juncture of Aang’s neck. Zuko's eyes cut back at them, flaring at her position.

“I could take your victory from you,” she murmurs, and Zuko shifts forward, face hardening. “I could take Father's weapon from him too, take the hope of the world from them all. But I know what it takes to win. I know you think I'm too cruel, too heartless, Zuzu, but I know my duty. I know my heart. Just like I know yours.”

She curls her fingers, nails scraping across Aang’s nipple, making him cry out again. Zuko jerks back with wide eyes, chain going taut and pulling Aang forward by the neck. His amber eyes flash again when Azula laughs, wrapping the chain around his wrist as he stalks forward.

“You think that’s what I want?” he snarls, shaking the chain at her.

Azula shoves Aang hard against the table as her foot hooks around his ankle. Aang falls to the ground with a cry that’s quickly silenced when the too-short chain goes taut, strangling the air from him.

Zuko flinches at Aang’s cry of pain even as he slackens his grip, letting the chain droop between them. But he doesn’t let go. Even as Aang gulps in air past the biting metal digging into his throat, even as Zuko’s face twists with guilt as he stares down at Aang, he doesn’t let go of the chain.

It’s too indulgent, too risky, but the plan is growing inside his mind, urging him forward until Aang curls his hand against Zuko’s thighs, ducking his head into the soft crimson silk. A hand curls against the nape of his neck, a gentle pressure that soothes the aching pain that’s been burning inside Aang’s chest since the Earth Kingdom, maybe even long before that, ever since he awoke. It feels like something Aang could own, something he could belong to in this world that has stripped everything from him. It feels like something he could _take_.

“So predictable, Zuzu,” Azula laughs. “Think on this, won’t you? I may be generous in my gift, but it would be brotherly of you to return the favour. I'll be waiting. But please do enjoy your present first.” Her parting words linger after the heavy door snaps shut, leaving them in the silence of the room.

It feels strange, to be alone with Zuko again, Aang thinks as he breathes in the cinnamon clove scent of the silk underneath his face. That anger still boils within him, the hurt, the sting of betrayal that urges him to fight, to hurt the way Zuko had hurt him. He wants Zuko’s face to twist in guilt and pain. But that feeling, that desire, no longer controls him. After everything he has suffered, after all he fought for and lost, he won’t let this cruelty control him. He won’t be like the Fire Lord, taking pleasure in the pain of others. He can forgive, can accept things that have happened, can accept his mistakes. He can let go of his shame.

He opens his mouth, presses it against warm silk.

The hand on his nape twitches with a sharp hitch of breath above him.

“Don’t,” Zuko says roughly, trying to shift away.

Aang spreads his fingers to hold his thighs tighter, keeps his mouth pressed to silk. The fabric is going damp from his breath, the press of his tongue. The hard muscle under his fingers flex, but Zuko doesn’t try to move again. He really is a coward, Aang thinks as he mouths his way to Zuko’s inner thigh. Every time Zuko allows himself to fall to his desires has been in the darkness, when he can’t see Aang’s face. Aang bares his teeth, sinking them into the softer inner thigh at the thought. Above him, Zuko’s breath goes ragged.

Not this time, Aang thinks viciously, inching his way up. He won’t let Zuko pretend, he won’t let him run away, not this time. Now it is his turn to take. He tilts his head back, the tip of his nose dragging against Zuko’s hardening bulge and opens his eyes at the same time he opens his mouth. Zuko’s face is flushed, mouth parted as he pants harshly, but it’s his eyes that burn through Aang in that unguarded moment before Zuko realises Aang is watching him. His eyes are wide, soft and lost and so terribly wondrous that Aang’s heart is captured all over again. Even as the fear flashes in Zuko’s eyes as his face hardens under Aang’s gaze all it takes to shatter is for Aang to press forward, press his mouth against the hardening length and drag his tongue against silken fabric. The stoic, controlled Zuko from when they had first met had disappeared, leaving this uncertain mess of a prince in his place, and Aang giddily wonders if the feeling roaring in his chest was what Zuko had felt when he’d had Aang in that house in the Earth Kingdom.

Looking at Zuko’s wrecked expression as Aang nips at the hard bulge beneath his lips, it feels like _power_ , an untouchable, unbreakable control that rushes through him, tells him that everything, anything is worth it so long as he has this.

All the monks, the sages, the gurus, they had all had such ideas for what the Avatar should be, how the Avatar should act, how they should think. But they had never told him what _Aang_ should be, and here, now, with Zuko trembling and cracked at the seams as Aang tugs down his pants to slip his mouth over his flushed length, Aang feels like his has found his place in the world.

The wood floor makes his knees ache, the braziers flickering wildly as Zuko’s control slips when Aang tugs his own pants down and reaches behind himself. The shadows twist on the walls, dance across the heavy curtains and make the twisting carved guardian beasts crouched at the four corners of the room seem alive, their painted eyes watching over them as Aang shoves Zuko back against the table.

“Don’t do this,” Zuko says as Aang climbs on top of him, and it sounds like begging, like weakness.

“I thought fire benders didn’t lie?” Aang taunts as clamps his knees around Zuko’s hips. He won’t let him run this time.

“You don’t want to do this,” Zuko says desperately as Aang reaches over him for the oil lamp on the table.

Aang jerks with a snarl at his words, knocking the lamp over. The oil spreads over the table, the fire catching on the strewn documents. Zuko huffs a breath, and the fire immediately snuffs out. Aang pauses, stares, the casual display of power from Zuko making something inside him surge forth again.

He looks down at Zuko sprawled beneath him. Here, in a small, enclosed room lit with braziers, there was no water, no earth to bend, and little room for air bending. Here, Zuko could easily fight. The chain was still wrapped loosely around his fist. There were surely guards nearby. Here, Zuko should have all the power.

He doesn’t even try to fight, and to Aang that tastes like victory. That feels like power.

“You know what I want, Zuko,” he breathes, dipping his fingers in the spilt oil. He doesn’t look away from Zuko as he reaches between them, slips his fingers inside him with a hiss. “I want you to see me.”

Zuko’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek as Aang wraps a hand around his cock.

“I want you to look,” he continues, and the words are no longer, no longer soft, but cold and vicious and too full of the things he won’t say. “I’ve always wanted you to look. Because you saw me, not just the Avatar. Did you think after that after what you did, what you said, it would change anything? Did you think you could break me?”

Zuko opens his mouth, and Aang shoves down. Zuko cries out as his slides into him, and Aang loses himself for a moment, the sweet painful stretch drowning everything out. He wants to pause there, let himself float in the sensation, but that wasn’t what this was. Another time, perhaps, there would be time for slower lovemaking, of shared laughter and soft touches, but right now Aang can’t let himself waver from his path.

He rises up, lets Zuko’s cock slide from him until only the head remained inside him before he rocks back down hard. The movement sends a wave of pleasure rippling through him, but he doesn’t slow, shifting on his heels so he can more easily roll his hips.

Zuko’s eyes are glazed, fists clenched against the table, but Aang won’t allow him to run in this, grabs his hands and places them against Aang’s hips, underneath his falling robes, closes his eyes when finally, Zuko digs his fingers into Aang’s sweaty flesh. There’ll be bruises, Aang thinks, and clamps his inner muscles tight around Zuko’s cock as he slides back up, revelling in the throaty cry it pulls from Zuko and the hard bite of nails into his hips.

“Did you think I was a fool, for believing in you, in us?” Aang snarls as he rests his hands on Zuko’s shoulders, holding him down. Zuko’s hips jerk up, finally thrusting into his, a hard, fast rhythm that crashes through Aang like waves. He wasn’t going to last long like this, but not yet, not just yet. “Did you think what I said was some foolish dream, that we weren’t bound together?”

Aang leans down, runs his tongue over the soft shell of Zuko’s ear. “Did you really think you could ever be free of me?” he pants, let’s go of Zuko’s shoulder to reach into his robes. “Did you think you could run back to the Fire Nation and forget me? I am a part of you now, Zuko. And you, you carved yourself into me. So where exactly was the lie?”

Zuko’s snarl sounds too desperate, too broken to be born of anger as he clutches Aang’s hips, thrusts up into him with increasing ferocity, but Aang just pulls him close, tips his head back to expose the long line of his throat. With a cry, Zuko sinks his teeth into his throat, right over the thin golden chain, as his cock pulsed inside Aang. His slick release fills Aang, marks his inside and out, and the thought rips Aang’s own orgasm from him.

He slumps, tries to focus as the aftershocks ripple through him, Zuko panting heavily in his ear. He surreptitiously presses his cupped hand to his mouth as Zuko turns his head, tongue pressing against the soft flesh behind Aang’s ear.

He pulls back, raking his eyes over Zuko’s face. Stripped of his anger, his fear, his guilt, Zuko looks younger, softer, more like the gentle boy from Azula’s stories. He looked like someone who truly cared, who wanted to do good even when he was unsure _how_. He looked exactly like Aang had always seen him.

Zuko’s mouth opens easily under his lips, soft and trusting, everything Aang has always admired, had always longed for beneath the violence and threat of Zuko the Prince, Zuko the Spirit. it is in his nature, to place faith in others.

It is exactly why he doesn’t suspect until too late, doesn’t notice the slick liquid pouring into his mouth. His eyes widen, shock and then a wordless acceptance as he stares back into Aang’s eyes.

Aang kisses him again as Zuko’s lips slacken, watches sleep settle over Zuko’s face and his hands fall from his hips, chain tinkling between them. Aang sits back, spitting out the remnants of the liquid from his mouth. There had been a part of him, a doubting little voice that told him Zuko would never fall for his own trick, not from Aang. It almost rankled that Azula had been right, even if his trust was what Aang had wanted all along, the thought that anyone, let alone Azula, could see Zuko’s heart so clearly gnawed at a shadowy corner deep inside Aang.

He reaches out, runs a finger down the slight crease between Zuko’s eyebrows, smoothing the frown from his face.

Zuko the Prince really was beautiful, Aang thought with a smile, brushing silken brown hair from his face, running his fingers over the scarred flesh, over sharp cheekbones and slack lips. It’s strangely satisfying to straighten his robes, tugging his pants back into place, as though Zuko had merely fallen asleep with no hint of indecency visible. Aang frowns slightly, and tugs Zuko’s collar down, just enough space to press his mouth and suck, scraping his teeth against skin for good measure. When he pulls back, the mark is already blooming red against creamy skin. Aang grins, tugging the collar back in place. He is beginning to see why secrets were so enjoyable to have.

As he pads over to the heavy door, Aang glances back at Zuko’s unconscious figure sprawled over the table. His face is tipped towards the door, features cast in shadow, only the shrunken shell of an ear and the twisted scar tissue lit by the torches. He hesitates at the sight. Zuko, for all his strength and skill was still vulnerable like everyone else. Aang no longer ignores that the surge in his chest that tells him to keep Zuko close, safe at his side, but not now, not just yet. He will protect Zuko’s precious existence, but those wicked thoughts had no place inside him right now.

He slips out of the room, into the dark corridor. There are no guards in sight. He creeps through silent halls, left, left, then right at the second door.

The antechamber is deserted, no maid or attendant in sight. A shadow detaches from the darkness, Azula slinking forward with a pleased smile.

“I take it things went well?” she smirks, eyes raking over Aang’s dishevelled appearance.

“Do you really want to talk about that right now?” Aang snipes, stalking past her.

Her laughter is strangely beautiful, even laced with that cruel undercurrent of malice. “Now now. I was just wanting to make sure you left my brother in one piece. He needs to be ameniable after this, or otherwise it would slow things down. So I was simply glad to see you've kissed and made up.”

"That's between me and Zuko!" he snaps, but he can feel the blush working it's way down his neck. "So are you going to hurry up and tell me your plan so can we get on with _that_ rather than talking about se- um, private stuff."

She raises her eyebrows, smiling slightly. “I'd assumed you'd be hesitant about all this, so I thought a little teasing might loosen you up. You really are more than what you appear, Avatar.”

“Aren’t you the same?” Aang replies as he twitches the heavy curtains back, peeking around them into the shadowed hall of the throne room.

Azula huffs as she steps in close to Aang’s shoulder, pressing a heavy lacquered fan into his hands. “We all approach duty in our own ways, Avatar. My brother... he is a lot of things that I am not. I used to believe my father, that it was weakness, that his kind heart was a flaw, not a strength. It's a little frustrating that someone like you could see it for what it was before me, but still, I understand now. Just don’t forget – you may have a claim on him, but he was mine since the moment I was born. Now then, don't hesitate. I can take on the Council, but you'll have to be quick to catch Father unawares. You can't hesitate.”

Aang smiles as blue lightning crackles from her fingertips, sliding his foot back as he raises the fan, voices raising in alarm beyond the curtain. “Believe me” he says calmly, thinking of twisted scar tissue beneath his hands "I won't."

With a flick of the fan, he shreds the curtain to ribbons.

When he’d been small, Zuko had dreamt of dragons. He’d poured over the dusty old folios, traced the twisting serpentine bodies, made fire pour from his mouth as he ran through empty corridors, Lu Ten laughing as he darted way, pretending to flee in terror. One of his brightest memories is clinging to Lu Ten’s back as his cousin clambered up wooden beams and over roof tiles, tucking Zuko close as they settled on the Eastern roof to watch the parade as the dragon dancers winded through the streets, jumping and twirling, jets of fire illuminating the night sky.

One of his most furious fights with Azula had been over dragons, her vicious smile at him angrily brushing away tears as she reminded him that all the dragons were gone. Lu Ten had found him afterwards sulking in the garden, had pulled him into his lap and had told the story of how Uncle Iroh had slayed the last dragon, his calm voice continuing even as Zuko had sobbed in his arms. When he finished, Lu Ten had brushed away Zuko’s tears, and whispered his secret: he also believed the dragons were not gone.

“But you just said that Uncle-” he’d argued, but Lu Ten cut him off with a small smile.

“Father has also taught me not to let pride rule my mind. There are many ancient, unknowable things in this world, and only a fool would ever truly believe they were superior to such things.” He’d laughed at Zuko’s frustrated scowl. “Sorry, Father tends to make everyone speak like that. What I meant was, it would be foolish to imagine you could conquer the Sun. Destroy the Summer. Enslave a storm. Do you think anyone could do something like that?”

Zuko shook his head, plucking the threads of the silver embroidered koi fish on Lu Ten’s sleeve.

 “Well, destroying all the dragons is the same, I think.” Lu Ten gave Zuko a little squeeze, rocking them both gently from side to side. “Ancient things may _seem_ lost, but the world is not predictable, nor is destiny so straightforward. Nothing is truly gone from this world, little cousin. You just need to keep looking.”

“But what if they really are gone?” Zuko had said, clinging desperately to Lu Ten’s sleeve as he peered up at his cousin. “Even if I look for them, if they’re gone, then there’s no point. Father said I’d never–”

“Oh Zuko,” Lu Ten had smiled, and it had been so very brittle. “No matter what anyone says, you were born to do great things. Your destiny may not be obvious yet, but you will change the course of this world.”

Zuko had frowned, trying to believe, even when he’d not been able to do the stances like Azula, hadn’t been able to fight like his instructors wanted. “Do you really think so?” he’d asked, small voice hopeful.

Lu Ten rested his chin on Zuko’s head, and his voice had seemed so very far away. “Destiny is never so clear cut, Zuko. Not mine, not yours, not anyone’s. But if you have courage, you can rise above everyone and forge a path greater than anyone could have imagined. Have faith in yourself. Your heart will lead you right.”

Lu Ten’s voice lingers as Zuko blinks awake, disorientated at the darkness of the room. His back cracks as he pushes himself up, muscles aching from the hard wood of the table. His head stills spins from the drugs. He needs to move, needs to find how long he’s been asleep. Surely not long if the Avatar had already escaped.

His legs wobble under his as he stands, room tilting, and he stops, breathing through his nose until the dizziness fades.

“It’ll pass soon,” a raspy voice says quietly behind him.

Zuko jumps, spinning around. Aang is slumped in the chair at the end of the table, smiling slightly despite the dark bags under his eyes. His saffron robes are torn, the fabric scorched, and there are dark stains on his sleeves that Zuko can’t look away from.

“What are you- what have you _done_?” Zuko whispers, as a horrible thought crashes through him.

Aang laughs, and it’s brittle in a way Zuko has never imagined was possible for him.

“Your sister is funny, isn’t she? Fire is our sister element, you know, so perhaps that’s why she reminds me a little of an air nomad. Mutable, adaptable, accepting reality as it is. That loyalty though, that's all fire nation. Maybe that’s why I have a little of the same, being the Avatar and all. We both wanted the same things, in a way - we both wanted an end to this war, and we both wanted acknowledgement. We wanted to be accepted for who we really are.”

In the distance, there is a faint ringing, the sound of the sacred bell tolling from the palace walls. It was only ever rung for one reason. Zuko remembers that last time well, dressed in white and wondering where his mother had gone as his grandfather was laid out and his father was crowned.

“Aang,” Zuko asks desperately, “Tell me what you’ve done.”

In the gloom, Aang’s eyes glint like silver, and a shiver runs through Zuko. He remembers the North Pole, the devastating power and the unshakeable knowledge that he is in the presence of something eons old and far greater than himself. He steps back.

“I did my duty,” Aang smiles brittle and hollow, and Zuko flinches. “I restored balance to the world. Before the other armies could arrive and launch their secret invasion, before your father's invasion, I made sure there wasn't more bloodshed. I... I did what needed to be done.”

He stares at the dark stains on Aang’s robes, the way Aang’s smile looks ready to break apart, and with a shuddering breath steps forward. Outside, the bells continue to ring.

“So you ki- it's over, then? The war?” Zuko asks, hesitantly resting his hand over the scorched edges of Aang’s robes, right above his heart. Beneath his hand, Aang's heart drums rabbit-quick. "So you finally won, Avatar. Then I'm guessing I'm _your_ prisoner now."

Aang watches him, smile fading, and something tugs inside Zuko’s heart, something that feels like a whisper, a touch that slides inside him, that shivers out from the grimy skin and burnt robes beneath his fingers and creeps into every part of him like a thorny vine. He shivers, but the sensation doesn’t quite fade. Aang’s eyes still flicker a strange silver.

“No, you're not my prisoner. As nice as the thought of _that_ is, I won't put you in chains. You still have your part to play,” Aang says slowly, softly. The sensation ripples through Zuko, and it feels like a caress against something deep inside him. “Even if you fought against it, even if you wanted something else, hoped for a fate that someone else had told you, it was always going to be this way. I saw it, the moment we met. I knew you were destined for great things, and together, you and me, we would be _amazing._ Do you get it? That was your true destiny all along, even if you wanted to be the prince your father wanted. And now, you've helped me do it, you helped me to restore balance to the world, Zuko. Your destiny was _me,_ it was always leading to me. Always.”

Something breaks inside Zuko, a shard lodged in his chest the moment his mother had whispered goodbye, from the moment his father’s fist had burnt the flesh from his face, that had shivered loose when he’d laid eyes on the prize no one had expected him to find, had looked into the resolute face of the Avatar, a boy his own age who had stood between him and a village and swore to protect when it would have been easier to run. All that power, and he had been alone, had expected to do the impossible. Everyone had seen him, and seen the Avatar, their saviour, their hope. Zuko had seen him, and had seen himself. And then it had been worse, because Aang had seen him, the person behind the Blue Spirit mask, and he'd still offered hope, had offered a possibility for friendship, for connection. And Zuko had wanted, had crept back to his ship and ached for the temptation of it. He'd tried to train, to meditate, to drive the feeling from his skin so he wouldn't dwell on how good it felt to have the Avatar, the boy chosen to save the world, look at him and see something of worth. He'd wanted that, wanted it for himself, to take it and lock it away, to parade it to the world, show everyone that the Avatar saw him as worthy and also tell no one, hoard it for himself as a secret only _he_ knew.

Now, the Avatar sprawls in his chair, dirty and bloodstained and eyes too full of things Zuko can't bear to name and offering him what he always wanted. It should be shameful, how good it feels. His father would be ashamed at him. But what Father thought didn't matter anymore. The Avatar had made sure of that.

Tanned brown fingers tangle with Zuko’s, pulling them to Aang’s lips as he presses a kiss against each knuckle. The strange silver is gone from Aang’s eyes, leaving only a familiar warm brown that smile up at him. Zuko sways closer, shudders as Aang turns his hand over and presses his lips into his palm.

“What would you have me do, Avatar?” he asks, and it’s a surprise that there is no twinge of shame in his words, that he can say it and be at peace with his decision. It is a strange feeling.

He feels more than sees Aang’s lips curve against his palm. Aang slides his fingers up until they rest over his wrist, right above his pulse and presses down.

“What I’ve always wanted you to do,” Aang murmurs against his skin. “I’ve only ever wanted you to see _me_. Look at me, see me, the real me, and accept it. Zuko, I want you to give me _everything_.”

Zuko shudders at the hunger in those words, the accompanying feeling of a shadowed caress inside him. Everything is tangled up, too much running through his head, thoughts of his father and the blood stains on Aang’s robes, of his sister’s schemes and the same sleeping draught as before, of his people, his duty, of that strange little thread curling around his heart that echoes with every word Aang speaks, an invisible chain.

He looks into warm, brown eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners with laughter and the feelings of fingers resting over his wrist, feeling the beat of his heart. And _wants_.

He bows low over their hands, presses his lips against the fingers on his wrist. “Then I will do what you ask, _Aang_.”

Outside, the bell continues to toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was never really satisfied with how the show avoided making Aang kill Ozai, so I indulged in this AU that a hardened and lonely Aang would do it not just for the sake of the war, but for his new squeeze too. Hooray for fucked up expressions of love!


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